Blackbird
by graver
Summary: A hypothetical season 3. Canon-based AU. Starts after 2.11. Claire, Peter, Nathan, plus other main characters coming up. Plot: Conspiracies and alliances are formed to survive the deluge. //It shines bright red – the precious elixir of life.// COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1: Waking the Dead

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3.**** Canon-based (up to S2).  
**

Starts off as Claire-centric, Peter and Nathan included. Other characters and storylines are coming in as the story progresses.

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**Status:** Completed (09/07/08); Edit (08/28/08): Reread and made some minor corrections.

**Spoilers:** all the way through S2

**Rating:** T+

**Warnings:** none

**Pairings: **General, some possible relationships later on

**Category:** Angst/Drama/Mystery/Action/General – depending on the chapter

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything. All the characters you recognize from _Heroes_ are the creation of Tim Kring. Just borrowing. I promise to return them for the actual season 3.

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_Perhaps heart strings resuscitate_

_The fading sounds of your life_

Lyrics by Interpol

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**Chapter 1: Waking the Dead**

Losing two of your fathers within a week's time must surely have an impact on your life. That's what they say. The truth is a lot more complicated. Another reassuring hand presses on Claire's shoulder while she shoves clothes into her duffel bag – mostly black, as has become the norm lately. "Mom, you need to stop worrying about me," she moans half-heartedly, picking a pair of blue jeans for a change. "I'll be just fine."

"I know. It's just what mothers do." The hand slips away and she turns to see her mother wringing her arms, a little paler than usual, exhaustion pooling into faint circles around her eyes. She shrinks at this image of her. Nobody should ever see their parents vulnerable. "Whatever you choose, Claire honey, you're doing the right thing." There's no pretense to her admissions. She'll miss her.

Claire drops the packing to embrace the aging woman, who despite all her resilience is but a simple soul and never expected anything other than a normal life. Claire does not know what to say to make it all better. The wind rips at the curtains in the afternoon sun.

They disentangle after a while, the air heavy with words unspoken. The older woman offers a faint smile before leaving to cook her last plate of waffles.

Lyle mopes on the porch, Mr. Muggles whining at his feet. "You'll be gone a whole week, right?" he mutters and rebuffs her hug. That's no proper occasion for familial teases him, messes up his hair with her free hand. "You wish."

* * *

Nathan's funeral is in just three days. A last glimpse at the Californian sun before the gloom of New York swallows her whole. Peter meets her at the airport, taking her bag that has almost nothing in it. Everything from the past few days is left incomplete.

They've both changed. There's no denying that now. His arms are still warm around her.

"I'm sorry about Noah…" he offers quietly.

"Yeah," she mutters against the sleeve of his jacket, hiding the guilt in her voice.

There's not much conversation during the flight. Snippets of Adam, the Virus, some messed up business with the Company. "Tell me about it," she marks, a tad more cynical than she first intended. Peter huffs, amused. They're always the same. Even as they embitter.

-

The rattle of the catering cart draws nearer and they think about their orders. He has a JD on the rocks, while she sticks to Pepsi, raising a questioning eyebrow at him. "For the sleep," he explains. She's not convinced, though. – "Sure."

Peter's eyes linger on the mush of clouds for most of the time. Claire lacks the necessary distraction and listens to her stomach growl. She swears she sees a ghost of a smirk in the corner of his mouth.

It's the pastry that cracks her. "I need to talk to you about something…" she states cryptically, opting for a cupcake. He pays for them both and waits for her revelation. There's something itchy about this phrase that never bodes well. "I didn't tell you before–I... we promised to keep it secret, from everyone. Even you. But I think you need to know."

When she tells him, he's not as shocked as she thought he'd be. Surprised, yes, but not amazed how her blood can raise dead people. He picks at the plastic cover of his sandwich, while she keeps her stare steady on him, and admits to having seen something like this before.

-

They both agree that it should be done as soon as possible. He wants to call Suresh for advice, but she refuses to have anything to do with that man. "You can't trust him. He's with _them_ now."

"I know Mohinder. He's not gonna betray us."

"Peter, he killed my father." – "He revived him." – "And that makes it all right?"

He doesn't respond. He'd slice the man who shot Nathan without giving him as much as a last thought.

"Can't you see?" she whispers hoarsely, leaning over the hand rest. "We can't trust anyone. The less people know about this the better."

It makes sense. He accedes.

* * *

They disembark the plane, both buried deep in thoughts. Hope is a dangerous thing and they handle it with caution. New York is dark by the time they get there. She's tired, but keeps her head up, the cab rushes through the lights of red and yellow.

A quarter of an hour later and they are effectively stuck in the traffic. She yawns for the tenth time and he beckons her to dose off on his shoulder. In this twilight zone of dreams and reality, she mumbles without thinking, "With your powers, we could be home by now."

He looks at her, bemused. "What?" She feels mildly ridiculous.

"I mean. There's a guy who… he used to... I–," she suddenly remembers the image of him soaring up for the last time – his secrets be damned – and decides against it. "Never mind."

Peter chuckles and she's afraid he's reading her mind just now.

"I'm a little tired that's all."

She doesn't answer.

-

Last time she was carried to her bed happened when she was seven and it was her dad. She winces at the saccharine memory and gropes for the light. She finds it. Claire recognizes the room she's been put up in – the same old attic chamber at the Petrelli mansion. Paneled walls and windows that open easily.

Her bag is set on the floor, along with a note on the nightstand. She picks it up.

_2:30. Be ready. Sleepyhead._

She glances at her watch – it's 1:24 AM.

The house feels hollow. Claire haunts the stairs, the steps cold under her feet. The glass chandeliers are silent as she passes doors and empty corridors. It's what people refer to as the mourning presence. In the living room she sees Angela sitting, with her back towards the door, in an armchair, clad in her customary black. Her neck is taut as a wire and shaking ever so lightly. It's strange to see her in such a state: the proud lady of the house and still nothing but human. Somehow, it seems utterly pitiful, but Claire can't quite bring herself to truly feel sorry for her. Maybe she got that one from her, too.

She takes some clothes from Nathan's room – or what used to be his room. The closet is still filled with some vague scent of Cologne from the suits and shirts and she can easily remove some without drawing attention. Kneeling on the floor with his folded clothes on the lap, the reality finally hits her, hard. He is dead. Dead. Dead, just like she is alive, right at this moment.

And for all they know, it may stay like this. For good.

When Peter meets her at the rooftop, she is already shivering. The hooded sweater casts shadows on her face and hair, and for tonight, dark colors serve them well. He takes the things she brought and puts them in his bag. The night is loud around them, cars and the undying traffic and people clamoring in the distance. She inhales, before taking the step.

"OK. Ready now?" Peter doesn't look half as assured as he sounds. He opens up his arms and she knows this part too well.

She nods silently before the takeoff.

* * *

The morgues smell slightly different from the hospitals. The air is sterile and reeking with detergent, fluorescent lights flicker green shadows, painting years on his face. Peter's grip tightens around her arm as they dive through walls of concrete and cement like mere ghosts.

The workers don't seem to take notice of them: they pass by as if she's not there, nearly hitting Claire with a gurney. He pulls her aside at the last moment, slumping into the wall. She watches the molested body being wheeled away and looks up.

Claire wants to ask him what's going on, but his fingers press on her mouth, a gesture to stay low and keep out of the way.

Without any resistance, they reach the inner circles of the underground labyrinth. He lets go of her and ends the cautious act, two steps ahead as she struggles to keep up. His dark coat flaps behind him; jaw set, look determined like that of Orpheus and he doesn't glance back to see if she's following.

"Peter," her voice echoes far in the distance and they pass another row of dead bodies. "What do you think about euthanasia?"

He stops to look at her. Her hair glows chlorine green in the sapphire light. Wrong person to ask this question. "I never think about it."

She continues, lightly, soft steps against the tiled floor. "Funny, I always saw you as the Dreamer."

-

This must be it, he concludes, standing before a steel cabinet C29 that matches with the number on the paper. He flings the hatch open with his mind and the board rattles out, white cloth over the body, two untucked feet sticking out. It's chilling, when they read the 'Petrelli, Nathan A.' hanging on the right toe.

Waiting no longer, Peter shifts the sheet to see the face of his late brother: calm and lifeless, just like in his dreams. It's all and all but Nathan, that greenish-purple body of a dead man. A soft nudge wakes him; at his side there is Claire waiting silently with the medical kit. He unwraps the package with two shaky hands: a syringe, some cotton wads and rubbing alcohol.

Brushing something invisible off his forehead, he fumbles with the needle. Claire's eyes stay fixed on him the whole time, he draws her blood, and she won't flinch. It shines bright red – the precious elixir of life. Her arm heals in an instant.

They consider once more before injecting the liquid into that stiff pale body. What they are about to do, what he is about to do to his brother, defies all laws of nature and men since the age of Christ and Lazarus. She tries not to think of Frankenstein.

"Do it." Their free choice is a feeble excuse.

-

They wait for a few seconds of an eternity, all the while nothing happens. Her blood is still in the dead body and the lips stay blue and lifeless. Peter swallows, hard. It was impossible to realize the full extent of their hope in this endeavor up to this final moment. It hurts bad, and the world starts swimming before his eyes.

Claire seems equally frozen, but not hopeless. It may take time for the active cells to reach his heart and revive it. Returning takes longer with the time spent 'away'. Then, something happens – first a stir of fingertips and the whole expanse of his chest muscles convulses in a violent spasm, the air filling his lungs with a long wheezing sound. What is first an uncomfortable tingle of the paralyzed limbs soon turns into a full-fledged pain as the dead brother wakes to new life.

And just like his dying image, Peter's face is the first and only thing he sees when he comes back. Again.

"Peter," Nathan croaks his name, his voice restoring, "You saved me."

"No," the younger brother shakes his head, breath ecstatic. "Claire did."

His eyes blink and travel across the room to find the blond with reddened eyes, smoothing gently the overgrown locks on his forehead.

"Claire?" The name sounds frail and too soft in the harsh light.

On the false autopsy reports, they say her pulse is hard to find.

* * *

Thank you for reading. Feedback is much appreciated!

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Notes: I made up Nathan's middle name, middle initial, that is. A for Arthur (his father), or Adrian ... or anything else for that matter. I just needed it for the story.


	2. Chapter 2: Mending the Mistakes

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. Canon-based.  
**

Mostly Nathan-centric. Includes Parkman, Peter, Claire, Heidi.

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**Rating:** T

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_Oh yeah in history, I'll treat you right, baby_

_I'm honest that way, hey_

Lyrics by Interpol

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**Chapter 2: Mending the Mistakes**

As the last irony of the fate, the Funeral happens to be one of the sunniest days in the month. Dutifully, the black crowd flocks on the patch of lush grass with more sunglasses than emotions to hide behind it. They're all here – people from his past, and from the present, and some who even he can't remember. Nathan props up on one of the tombstones and earns a disapproving look from the other photographer. The fellow grunts at him – he could've at least worn a black suit. Out of the respect for the deceased.

He bites back a smirk and zooms in the lens, never touching the camera button.

Cremation would have been the safest option, but changing the plan would only have raised more suspicion, and conspiracy theories were already flooding the press. Most of the people mean nothing to him and Nathan no longer means anything to them either. It's all theatrical and everyone is trying to act their part in it. The sun is burning on the back of Peter's suit and he sneaks a furtive glance around, spotting the familiar figure – disguised in a brown striped suit – and brings his stare back to the casket. With a hand on the small of Claire's back, they play the part of a mourning brother and daughter relatively well.

It's Heidi and the kids that make it so hard and nearly break the scheme. A pang of guilt courses heavily through Nathan's chest as he sees her clinging on to his mother. Handfuls of dust fill the grave of his old life. Monty sets a card on the heap of flowers and there's something else he later identifies as one of Simon's favorite toys. '_It's safer this way' _repeats itself like a mantra and stops him from crying out loud.

There's a reason you're never supposed to attend your own funeral.

At the safe distance, another dark figure is lurking, not a journalist, and slightly too determined to be a curious on-looker. When everyone has left, the two of them are still there. The journalist, who never ventured closer, goes to the grave and takes the offerings for the dead father. _"I'm sorry, boys."_

The stranger smirks.

* * *

An hour later, the house is packed with people and the scent of white flowers that seem to breathe up all the air in the mansion.

"Forty minutes before we can make a safe retreat." Peter's hand comes to rest on the railing of the terrace and his eyes lift up to the sky. The clouds are gathering even as they stand there.

Claire says nothing and slumps ungracefully into one of the garden chairs, tired and fed up with the entire fake burials thing. It's all for a reason, as her dad kept explaining her on the phone.

Through the half open doors, they hear the crowd mingling, 'a good man' and 'two little sons' coming up once too often in the soft murmur. Peter is obviously distraught by the whole business, and comforting Heidi did not go too well, as expected.

The guests are persistent with their condolences. Angela seems to be holding up better, having organized the whole thing by herself, just to show off to the public for the one last time that the Petrellis don't break so easily. They do, of course.

"They wouldn't even notice," Claire says and picks at the veil of the hat in her lap, something her grandmother had deemed suitable.

Peter shakes his head. "It's not worth the risk."

He's right, of course.

* * *

Three blocks away, in some obscure café, Parkman orders two coffees. Black. The 'dead man' drowns two pieces of sugar.

"Who else you got?" The spoon chimes against the ceramics.

The officer shrugs vaguely, a tentative stare on the TV screen before he turns, "Hard to tell, some are still unsure about the cause and it's Mohinder who has the complete list."

Nathan sips at the drink, his fingers tapping against the surface.

"But he's not giving it up to the Company?"

"No, he's very reluctant to show it to anyone."

Nathan rubs his chin, stubble already forming on his jaw. Maybe it's better if he let it grow again, change his hair a bit, wear glasses. People are not stupid and posting his face on every billboard has finally backfired.

"Is he in or out? Wouldn't the guy make up his mind already?" ­– "Apparently, he wants to have the middle ground."

-

Peter and Claire arrive a bit later – two more coffees, a steak and a few beers later. Parkman gets up and greets Claire, who recognizes the policeman from before. Peter sits next to Nathan, more thankful than ever for being able to do so.

"Pete, come on, we've been through this," he pats, finding something shaky in the unexpected hug. The younger brother withdraws, brushing it off, "I'm just glad you're here."

"Me too." He looks up at Claire, who has now begun to twiddle with her sunglasses.

Peter rises from the table to ask for their order and Matt excuses himself discreetly. The silence is back and heavier than before.

"Look, Claire… I owe you an apology." She listens, unable to decide if this niceness is genuine or just part of the act. "The way I treated you, in the past… I don't think I would have bothered saving my life." There's still no reply and the glasses clink on the polished surface and he realizes he's holding his breath.

"She's right," the girl muses with that sad grin of hers. "You do know your way around an apology."

Nathan thinks about many things – the last five months, the possibility of Claire being there, the mysterious bump on his car. A Channel 9 newsflash features the funeral. He had risked everything by showing up.

"Claire." He says her name a lot. Unlike Peter. It's as if he's constantly reestablishing her presence in his life.

She just stares, blinking her wide green eyes, looking so much like Meredith, while having nothing else in common.

"I know I've given you enough reason to doubt me. I can't blame you for that. But– I just wanted to say... What you mean to me is not just blood."

She doesn't know what to say to that.

The others will be back soon.

-

"Claire is returning home tomorrow," Peter asserts protectively in the middle of the discussion. He owes her that. They all do. But he's not very convinced in the probability of this actually happening and judging by the glances exchanged across the table, they all share this notion. It's Parkman who speaks up, having read everybody by now.

"I know you want to be with your mother, your family." Claire's eyes dart up with a shock. "I'm sorry, Claire – but don't you think you're only putting them in danger simply by being there?"

"I promised them I'd be back." – "I'm sure they know you're only doing it for their best interest." It's strange to have someone in your head, and with Peter it was different, more clipped and random.

"They have Noah." Parkman picks up the last of her secrets.

"Noah Bennet is alive?" All three look at Nathan. Claire slumps visibly, "Yeah, that's how we figured how to save you."

"Well, that's good news, right?" Nathan continues, picking up the steaming brew.

The companions look at him with unease. There's something else.

* * *

Peter's apartment was never meant for more than one person. It can accommodate a maximum of two, maybe three, if two agree to share the bed. But for the time being, there is no other option.

It will get even tighter, if Claire agrees to stay.

"Being dead surely has its downsides," Nathan grumbles. His accounts are closed, the credit cards defunct and they can't touch his money till the lawyers have settled his will. Peter is doing the best he can. Maybe he should write a new will? Leave most of it to Heidi and the boys. And Claire. The rest he would transfer on to Peter's account, some of it for his personal expenses.

He turns and shifts on the couch, never really intending to fall asleep. Just waits for his brother's breathing to deepen into a calm rhythm of in-and-out. When it happens, he gets up and puts on some clothes that Claire stole for him – from his own stands at the open window, curtains flailing around, before diving into the night.

-

Dead man's arms sneak up from her back and she doesn't shriek like she should, mostly because of his hand on her mouth. The lights click on and he's not sure whether she's going to hit him or hug him. She does the latter.

Her fingers run through his hair and back, taking in everything she can. Nathan dissembles into a young boy and it feels like their first touch in years. Her skin is soft and silky and she pulls him near, doesn't show that the stubble must be scraping her cheeks.

"You're not real, are you?" she whispers, nervous, her body pressed firm against him. "You came here, cause I've done you wrong."

No. "No, no…" he hushes, pulling away to get a better look at her. "It's me. I'm real. I'm _alive_."

Heidi wipes away her tears with the back of her hand and sits down on the couch. It doesn't make sense to her. He tries to explain something he's just coming to grope with himself, "Remember, before the election, briefly before I won, a miracle happened?"

She nods; it was a long time ago and they were happy.

"You see, it has happened again. I can't explain it to you, but I'm just as alive as you are now."

"But I saw you dead. We went to the morgue..."

"You have to believe me. I didn't come before, because it's not safe for you. The people who killed me… tried to kill me, they can't know about this."

A long pause. "You're not staying, are you?" There's no blame to her words, just the inevitability.

He hears himself sigh, but can't feel the relief. The words have been said before.

"People don't believe in miracles."

* * *

When he tucks in the covers of the hotel beds, the older son wakes up, innocent eyes wide open. It could be a dream. He's been dreaming about daddy too long to make out the difference. "I knew you'd come. I just knew it."

Nathan smiles, hand brushing the boy's hair. "Of course you did." The hair is smooth like kids have, uncorrupted by life. "I want you to take good care of your Mom while I'm gone. Can you promise me that? Can you be the man of the family?"

The boy nods. "I promise."

Before his father flies away, before he kisses him goodbye on the forehead, he asks when he's coming back.

"You'll know when."

The room is quiet afterwards and he can hear his mother crying.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Comments are more than welcome!


	3. Chapter 3: Truce

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. Canon-based.**

More drama and action. Main focus on the Sylar issue. Claire, Peter, Nathan, Mohinder, Elle and others included.

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**Rating:** T

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_How many days will it take to land?_

_How many ways to reach abandon?_

_You and I_

Lyrics by Interpol

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**Chapter 3: Truce**

Spotting him there was a pure coincidence, a stroke of luck. After keeping low for the first few days, only killing a man with a pretty pointless ability, Sylar wanted to see the real stuff, if only from afar. It was all there: regenerating, telepathy, time traveling, teleportation, and the way of getting everything for free. But in reality, he was no real threat to them, for even if he had wanted to attack them in the open, he would probably have lost.

So he kept the wrong shape for his own safety and watched from the distance as the scene played itself out.

He had heard each quiet whisper, listened to each of their heartbeats, trying to decipher the emotions, and the two kids were really heartbreaking – if he _had_ a heart to begin with. Eventually, the crowd left and he was still toying with the idea of digging up the dead body just to see if they had left the brain intact for him to find. And there it was: a strangely emotional beat and when he stood by the grave, the voice was unmistakably Nathan Petrelli.

For some reason, the clan Petrelli seems to lack the ability to remain dead.

Sylar tosses in the bed he's taken from another special, along with his ability (to solve cryptograms_ for God's sake_) and his outward appearance. If reaching perfection is the goal of evolution, he has certainly perfected the art of identity theft. But he knows he's meant for more. That's what's paining him.

If nature did not intend him to be like this, he wouldn't even have the ability. Dissecting brains and taking their powers is what he was born to do. It's no more a crime than eating or sleeping. And he needs to eat; the hunger is clenching him so badly that it's driving away the sleep.

* * *

Nathan is going through the kitchen cabinet, criticizing the way he has organized his stuff. He can't get mad at his brother, not yet, but he feigns annoyance as he shouts back from the couch.

"The coffee is on the rightmost shelf." Some more rummaging and a pot plummets to the floor. Peter winces – every sound has been louder to his ears for the last two days. He had picked up whispers and breathing in the burial service and blocked it out in the house. Now, this bang almost kills him.

"Found it."

He tries filtering out the blend of various noises of New York City and nearly succeeds when a buzz breaks his concentration.

He knows it's Claire by the time he opens it and she's just standing there, with her bag on the floor, face expectant and slightly nervous.

Peter swings the door wide open. Nathan nods at her from the kitchen counter, acknowledging.

"I'll make three."

-

It's an odd family breakfast. Probably owing to the fact that they have never been a family in the first place. The toast is good, though, compliments to the cook. It continues to be a bit awkward till Peter winks at Claire enigmatically, pointing out that this must be about the third time the big brother has ever seen a stove, earning a little chuckle from her and a protest from Nathan."Hey! I know my way around the kitchen."

"So _that's_ your secret superpower?" – "Very funny, Pete."

Usually, that's the part where Lyle throws his bagel at Claire. It's not all bad, right?

The atmosphere stays relaxed, until Nathan's phone starts ringing.

-

One call and the world turns upside down again. That's all it takes. One short phone call, one name, and fear floods their reality, washes away all their effort and light jokes.

Peter pokes uncomfortably at the remainder of the food. She's not too keen either.

_Sylar_.

The mere mention of that name ruins the taste of his coffee and makes the struggle even more pointless. "So he's out there? Are you sure?" Nathan taps a pen against the table, not really needing the answer. It's all rhetorical for him.

The cell phone slaps shut. "Matt told me there's a meeting with Mohinder this afternoon."

Peter changes looks with Claire, casting doubt on the enterprise. Who knows what it's really about?

"Dr. Suresh? Seemed like a sensible fellow to me." He notices the glare his daughter is casting on him.

Her fork hits the plate. "Then leave me out of it."

"I can't. You're already in."

* * *

No taping, no bugs, no mind reading, no weapons – no display of active powers from either party or the deal is off.

The meeting takes place in a controlled environment. Both sides agree on a closed office space and they all arrive at the said location at 12:30 sharp. Peter, Claire, and Parkman take their seats across Suresh, Elle, and Bob. Noah is left out as an unreliability.

It has finally come down to this – choosing sides before the pandemonium breaks loose, and maybe it already has. No one is especially happy with the current situation. Hell, they should all be fighting on the same side.

The war is postponed due to a new threat looming in the horizon. And for the sake of survival, a truce is made to exchange the information. The parts that really matter are kept in the back pocket. Everyone has something to hide.

The discord is slowly dissolving.

In turn for letting Peter absorb Molly's power they demand ten fresh samples of Claire's blood. Matt argues that they have no right to traffic with gifts. The powers belong to those who own them, not the Company. Even though Peter could use her ability to catch the killer, he would also gain a dangerous advantage over the rest of them.

Nothing ever changes. In the end, it's still about power and domination, not about saving lives.

Peter rubs his eyes in the effort of staying calm. He's always hated politics.

-

Ultimately, they can't agree on anything for that matter. There's been relatively low number of deaths and the killer has been careful to hide his trail. Chasing Sylar is useless if you don't know who to arrest.

"We can't just let him get away like this," Elle declares heatedly, fingers itching for some more bravery. This time, oh... _this time_ she's sure to get him.

Claire snorts, scornful. "You should've thought about that before you let him slip through your fingers."

"Shut up, blood bank!" The hatred between the two blonds leaks into the room like nitromethane, ready to explode at the smallest spark.

Bob touches his daughters arm, forbidding. Peter glares at Elle, eyes glowing with menace as his fists tighten under the table.

"I think we should all calm down," Mohinder says, a little too protective over his female companion.

It's all simple in theory. But the paranoia has already become a part of their lifestyles and knowing that Sylar could be anywhere and anyone, doesn't make it any easier to cope.

-

On their way out, Claire jumps before Bob, blocking the doorway with her twice as small body. Mohinder looks at her, surprised, and Elle turns back from the lobby.

"I want to see my father." The cheerleader has surely grown sassier over the time. As the seconds pass, she's becoming vaguely aware of the whole group's attention on her.

The fat man smacks his lips, studying her with his head tilted as if she were a restless wild animal. He pats her shoulder as he articulates the words slowly, evenly, and the tone takes her back to the first grade.

"I understand your concern, Claire. But that is not possible right now."

"You're lying," she spits, shrugging off the chubby hand. "You have no right to keep him prisoner."

_Claire_. Peter is pulling her away. Matt's warning sounds clear in her head. They don't need this right now. But she's past the point of caring about the consequences. She yanks herself free, takes a few steps forward until she's a mere inches away from the man. She falls just a feet too short.

"I'll make sure he gets the message."

Elle glares at her as they pass. If looks could kill, they'd both be dead by now.

* * *

Anthony Hawkins is walking down the street. Everything is normal. Fine even. If you choose to ignore the fact that he has not been to work for over three days, doesn't take any phone calls and completely refuses to recognize his friends and family, he's just his usual self.

The red hair and skinny face drifts along with the flow of pedestrians, looking for something and nothing in particular, listening to the sounds of traffic and the crowd rushing by. He ends up in Kirby Plaza, filled with new people who know nothing about that epic night but the police reports and tape around the crime scene. It's as if everything lies forgotten.

The building looms over the whole scene, catching a glimpse of the fading sun as it reaches up to the sky. Like it knows something. Anthony feels dizzy.

It is well into the afternoon when he returns, fishing for the keys in his pocket. And suddenly, he's no Anthony at all. Freckles disappear from his hands and a broken watch emerges. He can't hear the footsteps coming from behind or stop the keys from dropping to the ground. Sylar turns around with apprehension to see the grim face of the Haitian before he blacks out completely.

-

By chance – and fortune has been on his side ever since Gabriel became Sylar ­– he comes to his senses in the middle of the ride, trapped in a van, rapidly driven towards the great unknown. There's a bag pulled over his head and his hands and feet are firmly tied. He can't breathe, can't move and it's sure that this time there's really no escape.

Even as he feels numb, tranquillized, without his powers, his mind is well and functioning. Instinctively, he remains still and listens to a familiar voice talking on the phone. Delving deep into his memory, he recognizes Noah Bennet congratulating somebody on the efficiency of the tracking system. They've got him and they are almost at the destination.

Like a predator caught in a cage, blood pumping in his veins, he's desperate for a way out. But they must know better by now. No loopholes, this time. Or so they think.

The speeding ends in an almost car crash and as the vehicle skids sideways, something heavy bumps into the windshield.

He's back. For an instant, he hears the sounds of the street again and the sirens drawing near, the force in his fingers returning.

The Haitian is out a mere second, but the damage is already done: all they find from the backseat is some cut rope and an empty bag. They could spend hours raking the streets, hoping to spot their escapee, but they know it's hopeless. Students, waiters, businessmen congest the avenues. He's gone.

* * *

The hunt has always excited him. Tracking down and stalking his victims, he would eventually plunge and get what he was after. Being hunted is an entirely different matter. The sensation is new to Sylar and he feels unsafe and deprived from his secret identity that seemed so foolproof before. Turns out that fools can be very clever.

He thinks about the conversation he had overheard. Something had located him without a single lead and handed him to the enemy. He has been careful, but now he's alarmed. And he doesn't like that feeling.

Time for counteraction.

After doing enough thinking on his own, he dials the number and waits for someone to pick up the phone. Finally, the long toot is interrupted by a male voice. Something about the rasp voice in the receiver tells him he must have been sleeping.

"_Hi, Peter."_

* * *

_To be continued…_

- - -

Notes: About Peter's ability to absorb Sylar's powers, it has been bugging me for a long time and it was never fully explained in canon. I figured that he can only absorb them when they are being actively used on him, for example. It seemed to make sense, since he got the telekinesis from him but nothing else so far…

- - -

The next chapter will have more Peter in it. Until then, take a minute to drop a review. It means a lot to me to know that people are interested and following the plot.


	4. Chapter 4: Shadows

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. Canon-based AU.**

Peter, Claire, and the rest of the company. New twists and turns. Hope you enjoy the update.

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**Rating**: T

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_We all get paid_

_Yeah some get faith before they die_

Lyrics by Interpol

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**Chapter 4: Shadows**

Wherever he went, whatever he did, the tragedy kept following him like a bad karma. A neat little trail of possible victims and random bystanders who just happened to be in a wrong place at a wrong time. Nothing personal. And way too personal to think about. But it's impossible not to. Even as they rush through the blinking traffic lights or shake in the dull rhythm of the subway car he can only see them as the people he had nearly killed. Twice.

With no Matt around to hear him, his thoughts are running free and he can indulge in self-flagellation as much as he likes, until Claire starts giving him those worried looks that burn holes in his skin. She's tugging his arm lightly and the sweet voice brings him back from his ruminations. "Peter?" He doesn't know what she asked, but his 'I'm fine' smile doesn't seem to do the trick. The steel doors slide open and he's again confronted with the inquiry. What? Yeah, the next station.

The question is, can he do enough good to justify his being here ­– not just in this city, but the world in general? After he kills Sylar, could he just slip back into the oblivion, somewhere where it doesn't matter who he is and what he is capable of? Doing nothing and thereby doing no harm.

"You know I can't read your mind," she says on their way to Central Park. He's spent the whole afternoon with that crease in his brow, and she wants to know. ­– "I was just thinking…" he trails off, because really, she doesn't need to hear about this. "What if I they hadn't stopped me? What would it be like, right now?"

She hits a loose stone, sets it off skidding across the sidewalk, eventually hitting someone's shoe. Vents some of the agitation left from the earlier encounter.

"You think too much." Claire is right. The subway ticket is crumpled I her fist, but she keeps it for some reason.

"I know."

* * *

The office is eerily still, the daylight filtering in through the half-drawn blinds and the boss is sitting silently at the table, gently swaying to and fro as if bent by some invisible wind. Noah inhales, knowing what comes next. "This is completely unacceptable" is uttered calmly, almost like a wail. Elle fidgets with apprehension, picking at the fling around her neck. The only one who remains unmoved is the Haitian, leaning casually against one of the cabinets, hands in pockets. And all the while there's this horrible silence.

"You've all disappointed me," the sound escapes again. "You have all failed. Over and over again."

"I didn't fail you Daddy, if you had just let me handle–"

"Be quiet!"

Bob rarely yells. He gets annoyed and angry, but he never raises his voice. This is bad.

The man removes his glasses and wipes his face, trying to soothe some imperceptible pain. All his life he has made mistakes, and spent the rest of it making amends, long after everyone else had stopped even trying. And now, Elle. The one he can't mend. She's just like him, but only his bad traits. All he had ever wanted was a worthy successor and he had payed dearly for having her. All for nothing. Nothing.

"Leave. Now." The quiet whisper is even more intimidating, simply by the effort to keep it low.

Elle purses her lips, lip quivering, as if wanting to say something, but turns to leave. The three men listen to the click of heels fade in the corridor and he puts his glasses back on. "Did you have time to inject the 'treatment'?"

She clutches the shoes tighter to her breast, ear pressed against the door as she tries not to breathe too loud.

The answer is wordless.

* * *

Surprisingly, they arrive at the marked location a bit early. He takes a coffee and Claire is scanning the menu with a crinkled nose. Still no appetite. As the slender waitress appears at their table with her notebook and a pen, she is picks a random name on the list.

Twenty minutes past, Nathan enters. The man sits down, placing a folded newspaper in front of him and she sees a manila folder with newspaper cut-outs sticking out. Three or four days, he says. Some business to attend to. Says he owes that to someone.

Peter changes a little when Nathan is around, Claire has observed. It's as if some of the burden is lifted and handed on according to the family hierarchy. Congressman or not – he's still in charge and Peter needs him. The separation of powers works wonders, you see.

Claire watches them from her seat. It would be hard to understand this hero worship if she didn't follow the same pattern.

Peter is not thrilled. "Leaving town? Why?"

"You told me to keep a low profile for a while. That's what I'm doing." He can't play dead for the rest of his life. And Nathan is not used to sitting on the bench while life keeps happening.

The excuses are in vain and do nothing to hide the fact that Peter just wants to keep his brother close, now that he's got him back. "It's dangerous." – "I can fly, _remember_?"

"You're not Superman." Nathan grimaces at the image of the red cape.

"I'm aware."

-

After the Sylar thing, there is no more free blood, of course. I feels selfish, for sure, but there is no other way to keep the matter under control.

She wonders how long they can go on playing gods. It's bound to backlash, sooner or later. And maybe, it already has. Claire lets out a sigh as Peter keeps struggling with the apartment door. Frustrated, he drops the act and the lock snaps open telekinetically.

The place are just like they left it. Peter checks it first, inspecting the rooms with an owner's view before she can proceed. Finally, he decides the air is clear. Claire steps over the cardboard boxes and medical journals, accidentally hitting a King's novel. She slumps into the couch.

Five minutes later, Peter returns with a plate of sandwiches. There's tomato and tuna and really, it's far from bad.

"The Petrelli sandwich," Peter notes, wiping the crumbs from his mouth, "the only thing I learned from my Dad."

Claire stops eating, waiting for more. Something more about his dad – her grandfather. But it never comes.

"You haven't mentioned him before."

"Not much to tell. We never really got along," Peter adds with a sorry smile and gathers the dishes. She can't imagine the situation he was in, but Nathan's part suddenly makes a lot more sense.

She joins him in the kitchen to help him clean up. The guy is so far unlike the Petrellis that he doesn't even own a dishwasher. He always thought of getting one.

"Sure," she laughs, and the dish slips from her hands.

-

She barely registers the pain, and maybe she's gone careless over the year. With mild apathy, Claire watches the cut run across her forearm, a thin line that's already started leaking.

"Let me get that for you." A clean dish towel in his hand, she watches the nurse in Peter take over.

The priceless liquid the Company craves so badly spills on the tattered kitchen floor.

She lets Peter clean the cut: deft practiced strokes. The white cloth drenches through and through. There seems to be an awful lot of it, she thinks absently.

Finally, he retrieves the towel, looks down at the incision. The blood gushes on, out of the wound that won't close up.

He looks up for explanation, but finds terror instead.

* * *

It's one short step from unbreakable to hemophiliac.

She watches him dial the number, breaking so many rules of their agreement and Claire still hasn't said a word. There's no other way, he repeats for the fifth time, and maybe, she might believe him one day.

"Mohinder? We've got a problem."

This is not happening. They are not calling her sworn enemy for help. She's not looking at him as he takes the sample.

"I can't believe this. It's not even clotting." The scientist pokes at the wound. It hurts.

Seeing is believing. And the newly wound bandage around her forearm adds credibility to the fact that this is certainly not a dream.

"Did they do this to me?" she cracks, careful to maintain the distance.

Mohinder shrugs, packing up the supplies, "We don't know what it is yet."

-

When he opens the door to his lab, he spots a familiar figure at his desk. The heels propped on his most recent case, Elle spins herself in his chair.

"Where have _you_ been?" A mocking tone of a housewife and she flicks on the lamp.

Suresh shoves the samples deeper into the shoulder bag, voice purposefully nonchalant.

"Are you spying on me?" He advances to his desk, rearranging everything she's misplaced. She retrieves her legs, watches the spots of his shirt swim before her eyes. He gets the feeling she's not actually on clock.

"Depends. Do you have any secrets?"

* * *

With a gentle tap of cat's feet, a figure emerges from the darkness of the living room. Cocooned in the white blanket, Claire huddles against the doorframe, eyes dark in the scanty glow of his night lamp. He thinks he sees worry, he thinks he reads thoughts like 'fear' and 'home', but it could be the light playing tricks on his insomniac eyes. Still like a statue, her eyes stay fixed on the bed.

"Any word from him?" A short shake of head and a blond curl spills loose. Peter watches her for a while and shuts the book he wasn't reading anyway. It's hard for him and she must know that.

Years back, he could have comforted her as she appeared on his doorway, a younger sister of sorts, told her it was just a bad dream and let her stay the night. But she's not a child any more and he can't pretend he's her brother. He averts his gaze.

The bed still looks rudely empty and even he can't deny that.

So he pats the mattress, making sure there's a pillow for her. Encouraged by the invitation, Claire takes up the offered space and keeps the blanket coiled around her. She's reduced from pupa to a caterpillar.

-

Apparently, she's one of the people who prefer sleeping on their stomach. It strikes him how completely different this Claire is from the one threatening Bob. Without the brash self-assurance, full of desire to save the world, she looks positively fragile.

"All I ever wanted was to get rid of it," she muses, cheek flat against the pillow. "To be normal. Just like everyone else." He touches her shoulder like she's going to break. She flinches but says nothing.

"But now that it's been taken away… I feel… weak. Insignificant."

He withdraws his hand, seeing that it unnerves her. "We'll figure this out," he reassures as her lashes flutter shut and she wrestles with sleep to hear him say that.

After saying nothing for a while, she turns around, and the blanket spills loose. He watches the tangled hair around her neck, represses the urge to adjust the covers.

He doesn't intend to relax, doesn't intended to find sleep. But he kills the lights for her.

* * *

He dreams of flying, like he often does. The glass city is glinting in the light, newborn after the morning shower. Peter knows it's not real. He knows it by the way Simone walks with her brisk gait and Charles smiles from his wheelchair. There are new paintings by Isaac and some of it is happening now. A thickly accented voice from behind calls his name, he turns and finds himself in a graveyard.

"Peter Petrelli," Hiro repeats, "Save the cheerleader". Peter clutches the sheets and darts up to find Claire looking at him with fear. "Peter." He looks down and the sheets are red. "Save the world." The silence whistles loud in his ears, nearly deafening.

Another yank and he wakes up. The room is still and his phone is ringing on the nightstand.

"Yeah?" he mumbles hazily, wondering if this time it's real. The voice in the receiver is unmistakably familiar, causing his heart rate to skyrocket, instantly awake.

Peter hisses the forbidden name, careful not to wake Claire.

_"Calm down,__"_ the voice mocks, pleased. _"__You're gonna get a heart attack."_

He sneaks around the corner, makes sure she's sleeping before he continues. "What do you want?"

_"The same as you do."_

* * *

_To be continued…_

- - -

Notes: I've been updating in every two days till now. Unfortunately, I can't keep the same pace as the storyline is getting more complex and the number of characters increases. Knowing the plot, it's hard not to rush forward and get sloppy. But don't worry, I'm still on it...

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In the next episode, Nathan's mission will be explained as well as what is happening to Claire. So, bear with me and keep on commenting. Makes me try harder and miss more lectures ;)


	5. Chapter 5: Break Apart and Come Together

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. Canon.**

Back to the conspiracies. Peter, Claire, Nathan, Elle, Mohinder and other plot-lines. 10,000 words milestone (my longest fic ever).

And to avoid the confusion: _italics_ are used in the narrative for thoughts and _past dialogs_.

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**Rating:** T

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_So swoon baby starry nights_

_May our bodies remain_

Lyrics by Interpol

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**Chapter 5: Break Apart and Come Together**

Unknowingness is waking up with sheets on his side cooled down. It is packing the bags in the middle of the night and leaving the place without as much as a coffee. Uneasiness is her arms fumbling for a way around his neck, not knowing where she can to lean on to. Reality is him holding her too tight, afraid he might drop her. Everything has changed overnight. Fear makes them mortal again.

After a while, she forgets who first taught her to fly, and maybe it was just Peter all along. "Don't fall asleep," he tells her, and her fingers curl back into a tight knot. Couldn't they at least wait till the morning? Her thoughts scatter into the night and she doesn't care if he catches them.

_He knows where we are, Claire. He knows about Nathan. I think… I think he was at the funeral and neither of us noticed. It's not safe here. with me._

Strangely enough, they feel the safest when suspended five hundred feet above the skyscrapers. "It's beautiful," she whispers as she opens her eyes to the Manhattan in full lights. And maybe it's all worth it. – "First times…" he muses and his hair doesn't obscure his vision like it once did.

* * *

He hates being manipulated. Probably because it happens so often.

Sylar had laughed cynically into the handset.

_I see they failed to inform you about the part in the fine print__ of your arrangement. You're just pawns to them, all of you. Unless you do something about it._

Against his own judgment that Sylar is just using him to get back to the killing business the voice stays clear in his head.

_Who is easier to stop? A single man or the entire Company? And when they're done with me, they will take you out the next in line._

He thinks back, remembering the night at the Plaza, decapitated victims. Claire.

_I don't trust you. – You don't need to. Just think about it._

Peter may hate him, hate Sylar as much as he possibly can, but he is thinking, hard.

-

"I'm still not sure what we're dealing with, but it's fortunately not aggressive."

It's early morning hours and the night hasn't brought much sleep to any of them.

"How's that?" Peter asks. "Does this mean that she'll be fine?"

"It seems that Claire's antibodies have neutralized the threat, but something must have changed in her system."

Claire is squinting her eyes, puzzled and groggy. "What does that mean? That my powers are gone forever?"

The geneticist rubs his forehead, evading a direct answer.

"We don't know that yet. Any trace of the cause has been flushed out of your system."

Great. Even her body is working against her. "So what do we do?"

-

Noah Bennet's handshake is strong and assuring. He knew Peter would take care of her. A good man, he comments. Noah always manages to paint a bigger picture of him and, in a way, it's getting burdensome.

For his importance and her love, Claire's father has always been a step higher than him, but he never applied for the idealism, never took up the 'Hero' title, and remained a 'Dad' all the while. He's not feeling envious.

Maybe it's just him, but there seems to be a slight overlap in their duties. As soon as the guy appears, he steps aside, automatically, to make some room. She's chosen Peter before, but he's not convinced about it now.

The father's eye spots the dark rings under her eyes and he would definitely frown at the bandage under her sweater. "Claire, is everything alright?"

"Dad. Something bad has happened."

Peter keeps his eyes on the parking lot.

* * *

The stout body crashes against the wall and this might be the day he has to throw away his favorite suit.

"You promised me you'd leave her alone!"

Whatever it is that Bennet wants, he's not in the most sensible mood. The company man reaches to protect his throat. Talking becomes more difficult by the minute. Bob stays cautious.

"I don't know what you're talking about." – "Claire. You infected her." The grip around Bob's neck tightens. He could be harder, but Bennet knows that behind those glassy eyes and clueless look, the man is dangerous. Still, he can try and squeeze the truth out of him.

"Whatever is happening to her, it is not our doing."

"Liar," he spits, but removes his hand from the neck. The boss bores his eyes into him. "Noah." Heading to the door, the former employee shakes the whole corporation off his shoulders. He's done.

"That's not what we agreed on. If you leave now, the damage you do to–"

Bennet stops, scornful, "Our agreement was over the moment you decided to involve Claire."

-

Without as much as glancing at the graphs, Noah covers the research with his hand. Mohinder looks up to the gold glinting between the horned rims. The man is determined, he always is, and can't be argued with.

"It's the Virus."

The Indian scientist frowns, puts down his pen . – "They destroyed all the virus." That was the deal.

"And you believed them?"

A knowing smirk changes the expression on the scientist's face.

"But how?" Who's doing the research and the testing? Behind his back?

"There's a lot of things going on, Dr. Suresh, that you don't know about."

* * *

Matt was right – nobody could have survived this inferno. Nathan paces around the rumble, kicking pieces of disfigured plastic that used to be a mobile phone, no latches, no escape routes. Suddenly, a shout from behind.

"Looking for something?" A harsh timbre, slightly hostile in its self-righteous annoyance.

"Yeah, I– erm– I was investigating the scene." – "The insurance company?" A nod. "I told you, it was arson, local gangs…"

The black man, shabby looking enough, tells him the tragic story of his small business – most of it doesn't quite match with the police report – and Nathan pretends that he cares, another thing he's good at. Sliding his fingers over the wall, cinders peel off, and the crisp smell of burnt fuel and metal bring about some unpleasant memories he's been trying to avoid.

"And after the explosion, then what?"

The owner shrugs, chewing on his gum, "No one came out." No dead bodies found either.

"I'm sorry uh," the guy stops, suspicious all of a sudden. "I didn't get your name." That's right. He didn't give any. Nathan casts a glance over his shoulder.

"Kent." The curt replies still work for him. For a moment, he regrets he didn't try Clark as well.

-

The school is nothing special, for a potentially special kid. Not that he and Peter ended up any better for that _–_ it's unlikely that anything can prepare you for what life has in store for you.

Lurking in the school yard like this makes him ill at ease and so he decides to stick to the look of a private investigator. Just to be on the safe side. A quick glance at the watch. Some more minutes before the bell rings and kids of different ages scatter on the front stairs.

The boy from the picture appears in the crowd, a sweatshirt tied around his waist, and it's hot outside. Nathan waves at him self-importantly, nodding him to come over.

"I'm here to investigate the disappearance of your mother." The boy notices that he doesn't produce an ID. But he's just a kid.

And the kid thinks it's about time.

-

The sun keeps bothering him as he pulls the wheel to the left, driving through the streets of New Orleans. He's being watched, but it's harmless. There's no way the person at the steer is Tom Carson.

"Aren't you that dead politician?" The 11-year-old is the first to notice.

An eyebrow crooks, but his expression is hidden behind the dark glasses. Metal rim, slightly 70s, now worn by the cooler kids at school.

"Do I look like I'm dead?"

"No," Micah says and puts down his Game Boy. "But you look like a politician."

He stops at the traffic lights, conveniently red, to look at the boy, assessing. Dark curls wiggle around his forehead, equally dark eyes set on him keenly. "You're a smart kid."

"Yeah," he says offhandedly, like he's getting tired of some old song. Picking up his toy, he clicks the 'start' button again. "Or 'geek' for short."

Red turns yellow turns green. The wheels creak as he hits the gas.

* * *

"Are you leaving?" Elle is playing for time.

"Yes." His books, notes, tests – they all disappear into the cardboard box.

"Because of the virus?" See, even she knew about this before he did.

Mohinder barely reacts. "Yes."

She paces around the room, the same old Isaac paintings she's got bored of looking at. She could stop him, and maybe she should? It wouldn't take much. Just a small charge. But he'd make another attempt and Daddy would be mad, for sure.

So the room gets emptier and he is gone without noticing one of the samples of blood missing. Turns out it wasn't the cheerleader's blood anyway, but _damn i__t_, she had really wanted to get rid of that hindrance on her right arm. Distressed, she heads for the door, tapping in the security code she thinks everybody knows by know. Theatrics. Then, the small box electrocutes her. _Ouch_. This has never happened before.

_Good one, Dr. Suresh._ Is there any water on it? The panel looks like it always does. She tries again and it's even worse.

Elle takes a step back from the offending object, fingers tingling from the shock. _What the–?_

* * *

_To be continued…_

- - -

Notes: Faster update than I had planned. I like this chapter much more than the previous one, which was quite a struggle to put together and didn't flow as nicely, but I suppose it was necessary to get to this point. Still looking for the right balance between drama and action.

Further Notes: As you might have guessed already, I enjoy writing Peter and Claire's relationship (on any level) and I've noticed that many of my readers are likewise inclined, so they are definitely part of the scheme. As for other themes: I'm going to keep the characters and interactions close to canon, but for the sake of the storytelling there'll be some more AU-ish stuff later on.

Oh, and a special cookie for those who picked up on the name pun. I like it when Nathan uses his wit. Or whenever he's not doing the politician act.

- - -

Comment if you enjoyed it. Critics, if you didn't. Let me know what you think...


	6. Chapter 6: Fallibility

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3.**** Canon-based AU.  
**

Chapter 6. Day 6, the story continues. Peter, Claire, Nathan, Elle… I'm hoping to keep the updates coming once or twice a week. Unfinished stories bug me, too.

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**Rating: **T

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_You're coming with me_

_Through the aging, the fearing, the strife_

Lyrics by Interpol

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**Chapter 6: Fallibility**

The problems have always revolved around the blonds. Not just Meredith, but everyone else he's met over the years, at the college, the early career, the banquets… he can't even remember all the women who once captured his eye, only that they were unexceptionally fair-haired. That's why it had to work with Heidi. And it did, for some time. Until another fair beauty came along and made him forget why he had made that decision sixteen years ago. But this time it's different. This time, he can do the right thing. Be the hero, not the bastard.

"How do you know my Mom?"

Nathan thinks back. Las Vegas, Linderman, Kirby Plaza… she always seemed to be around, like a guilty conscience of his. "Let's just say our paths have crossed."

"They hired Jessica to kill you, too?" He's forgetting the boy is clever. And maybe, he is talking like a politician. – "You knew about her illness?" There's no answer and it wasn't a real question, rather an evasion from the tacky subject. Building and streets pass while Micah keeps chewing on his lip, mulling over something.

"She wasn't always like that, you know. But then things started to go wrong, bad things happened, she got depressed… and then the other one came out. " A beautiful woman with wavering self-esteem? It is becoming a trend lately. Add some superpowers and you get a tragedy. The car pulls over and, judging by the way Micah is fidgeting on his seat, this must be the right house.

"She loved you a great deal." Nathan feels sorry for the boy, removes the glasses to make it matter. He reaches over to the back seat and Micah is clearly frowning at the use of the past tense. The school bag retrieved, the kid stops and looks at him.

"I know. I just wish she would love herself as well."

* * *

"I can't believe it. You have the same condition." Elle has no trouble believing it, and to tell the truth, it's no coincidence at all.

"Dad is so gonna kill me." No, worse, he'll disown her if he finds out about this. Her training, all the time and effort of refining her skills to what they are… were. One stupid injection and it's all gone in a second.

"Is that all you care about?" Mohinder asks, amazed, dark eyes glowing with some unexplained fervor. She doesn't understand. "What do you mean?" The company, her powers, her dad… seems like a whole lot to care about. Mohinder shakes his head, throwing away the cotton swab and sealing the sample.

"You're a carrier of some unknown disease, you have lost your abilities, you're defenseless against Sylar's attack… and all you care about is what your father has to say about this." He stands up with his bag, reminding, "The man who probably ruined your life."

Elle's mouth snaps shut, preparing for a comeback. The truth hurts more than the high voltage, it seems. What about Suresh himself? Everything he does is based on his father's work, his father's ideas. She stares at him, defiant, wanting him to back down.

It doesn't quite work. "I never followed my father's lead without a question," Mohinder states, undaunted by her assault. "I have paid my debt through doubts and errors. All the faith I have in this mission is my own."

Elle says nothing; she doesn't like losing an argument.

-

Having postponed his departure long enough, Suresh puts back the folders and switches off the microscope. She's still sitting there, no sparkles, no charges fizzling in her fist. As it is now, she can't even touch a doorbell without risking a fatal injury.

"Mohinder." He turns around, not recognizing her voice. Maybe it's the echo. She's still sitting there, looking down, drawing her heels along the tiles – some extra damage to the exploding New York. A long scratch goes straight across the Chrysler building. She's thinking, but he can't tell what.

It's the thought of facing her dad that scares her and – unlike Suresh – he'd know what she has done. She acted on her own again. Without any orders. Autopilot all the way, no one else to blame. No way to correct it either.

"Can I come with you?"

Mohinder halts half-way out the door, shocked. And thinking. Taking her with him is like allowing the enemy in from a back door. This is certainly a bad idea. A very bad idea.

-

She almost makes her first step in the outside world. She almost does something by herself, for her own sake. _This_ close to self-reliance. It is scary, but she was always drawn by the thrill, the risk of doing things no one else thought she was capable. It is happening fast. But not fast enough.

"Elle?" Bob's unmistakable shape and stern voice brings her out of whatever she process she was going through. Mohinder pauses, casting a final look at the room of shattered glass and leaves.

Bob looks back, then at his daughter and sighs on the doorway, defeated. "Was that the best you could do?"

* * *

The late afternoon stretches on and there's a new apartment. Nothing special: a kitchen, two beds, a wad of cash and no questions asked. "It's okay," as he puts it. Okay enough for a temporary hide-out. Until Nathan gets back and they can move on. Despite the TV set and the amount of furniture, the place feels strangely cold.

It's his idea to order some pizza and something about the way they sit on the carpet instead of the couch makes her think of Zach. Movie nights and school projects, when all they did was plot against her father and imagine finding her real parents – the big reunion with her lost family, and all would make sense again. So much of that, now. Claire wipes her mouth, the earlier hollowness disappearing.

She realizes they're both waiting for something, and her eyes drift to his cell phone. It lies still on the coffee table, amidst with the empty boxes and greasy napkins, does not intend to start vibrating any time soon, no matter how much they stare at it. No messages. Nobody calling.

-

Her head on his lap, she trips in and out of consciousness, short fits of sleep she needs more than he does. Fighting with himself for a while, Peter lets the golden silk flow through his fingers. It's shorter now and straight all the way, doesn't quite match the nostalgic image of the girl who first bumped into him in that hallway… A long time ago, when the mistakes were still waiting to be made.

"What happened to your curls?" he asks, mock-serious, as he sees her eyes stay open this time. She blinks, a smile curling around her lips, and a strange jolt courses through her chest.

She shoots back. "What happened to your bangs?"

– Elle happened to them. But he's careful enough not to say it out loud. "When I was hidin, in the company… I had it cut for convenience." Hers is still long enough. His hand stops, but she's still looking at him, probably imagining him with longer hair.

Hair grows back. So does everything else, as is the case with them. She's not so sure when.

-

"We'll find a cure," Peter repeats, mistaking the doubt for anxiety as he flips through her thoughts. Right now, this is their prime objective.

Her look changes… What if it was supposed to happen? What if this is her way out of the circle, a way of not sharing the fate of Adam? Giving up her gift and gaining something better, a normal life, a full lifespan. _Would he let her do that? Could he let her be mortal, grow old like everyone else?_ – "No." He's selfish too, in a gallant way.

"Why not?" she debates audibly again, green eyes stare up at him, brows knit together. It's as if he's denying her something essential, her basic human rights. Peter smiles dimly, a slow shake of head. He'll never stop fighting. For her and with her.

"Because." He picks up her bandaged arm, smoothes it, marveling, doesn't confront her gaze with his olive green one. "It would be like euthanasia." And he needs her around.

* * *

Elle paces around the hallway. She tried sitting in her room, but the space soon got claustrophobic. The wards are mostly empty, their prisoners gone, even the one who was supposed to be there forever. It's like the whole building is about to collapse. No. _No_, you're stronger than that. That's why she's here, always in the front line, waiting for the explosion instead of looking for shelter.

The staff passes by, giving her the odd looks. Maybe they know, maybe they don't. But she can't see them. There's just the long wait and the white coats around her, charts and research, a 9-year-old, waiting for her daddy to come back and take her home. What finally brings her out of this blur of white and black is her name, shouted out loud, but distant, and maybe she was imagining it.

It repeats. And she knows it's time.

-

The door creaks and she fears that this might be the last time for her to stand here, in this office. She takes in everything she sees, remembering it, even though it feels like a tribunal. But the sentence she hears is everything but what she expected.

"Elle, I have an assignment for you."

"Really?" she beams, but then doubts her luck. "You said I was benched."

"I know, but this one is different." Bob taps the mahogany surface with a golden pen. It looks expensive, but not for him. "Mohinder. We need him with us."

She takes a seat across the big boss, swings her leg over the other, regaining her confidence. She's back in the game. "How can _I_ stop him?" Persuasion? The man doesn't even like her. "I don't have my powers any more."

"I believe you still have some." Elle's eyes widen. _He's not_… Bob rolls his eyes.

"Go with him, with _them_. Stay close and be prepared. Do what you think is necessary to get the cure." She rises, slow but steadier now. At the door, her father adds, with some regret.

"Concerning association with the Company, consider yourself suspended."

* * *

The windows have darkened and the air is clear. A starlit night in the suburban calm, only interrupted by the occasional voices of some local gangs. He lowers his head to the steer wheel and lets the darkness crawl from the windows into his eyes and lungs. After hours at hospitals and morgues, police reports and fire department, he is still no closer to the truth. All he has achieved is getting the poor kid's hopes up and losing his own in the process. He stares at his phone. 3 missed calls, and he knows he'll have to call them. Accept the defeat and return home. But not yet.

Just not yet.

Some strange knock. Nathan glances at the rear-view mirror, sees nothing but an empty road and lights. It gets disconcerting when the sound repeats itself. A distinct clank of something hitting the trunk of his car. Reaching for his gun, he steps out of the vehicle.

The phone clatters on the ground, falling into three separate parts. In a second, his body is jammed against the car, arms bent behind him. Resistance is futile and the grip around his arms too strong.

"You should've stayed away from this." A woman's voice. He tilts his head left, skin sliding against the polished surface to see a black boot squashing the pieces.

Something hard and metal is hurled at the back of his head, robbing him of his vision, his thoughts, and his escape plan. The knees buckle and he crashes against the car, the asphalt grazing his knees. He blinks at the dark uniform and sees nothing.

* * *

_To be continued…_

- - -

Notes: I didn't want to squeeze too much time into one chapter, so the revelation of their condition will have to wait. Hopefully not for long.

_Fox Fiend:_ Yeah, I know what you mean, about the length thing… it's really tempting to write those short ones to get the plot progressing, even though it's not good story-wise. I'm currently trying to adjust some of the earlier material and the upcoming ones as well. Thanks for your advice and thanks for commenting, I'm glad you liked it!

- - -

Drop me a line if you're reading it. Feedback is much appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7: True Nature Unfolds

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. Canon-based AU.  
**

A revelations chapter. Sylar, Peter, Claire, and all the main storylines. A longer chapter, lots of work and re-writing, many points to cover. (The title for this chapter borrowed from the band named Callisto.)

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**Rating: **T

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_Sensitive to faith not _

_Denial. But hey who's on trial?_

Lyrics by Interpol

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**Chapter 7: True Nature Unfolds**

Everything has a function, a way of operating. Sylar knows it. But Gabriel Gray lacked the conviction. Numbed by the mundane and ordinary around him, he had wasted years of his unhatched life, thinking that watches were the only things that ticked. Back then, being a clockmaker seemed as good a destiny as any. Or so he thought.

The opportunity had dawned on him years later when meeting Brian Davis – a whiny little man who gave him his most powerful tool, his first stolen gift... Just lying there, waiting for him to reach out and claim it. And it was like removing the pillar plate of his very first watch.

After that, things had got easier, one skill followed another and he even learned to hear the ticking sound that people made. Soft thump-thump and then the wheels turn no more. He knows there are lots of lessons waiting, new systems to explore, skills to acquire, people to dissect.

– He's not a psychopath. The way he watches her in the shadows is methodical and has nothing to do with the crime of passion. Everything is planned. He has a purpose. A destiny to fulfill. Even as a handsome stranger, he keeps his eye on her identity card, and brushing a hand through the reddish locks he asks if she's on duty. She giggles self-consciously and reveals her schedule.

It was Candice who taught him that people only see what they wish to see.

* * *

Their breakfast is heavy with apprehension. She has feared this, but he's seen it coming. They drown their sorrows in the coffee, dark and brooding. Claire thinks she's getting hooked on sugar. This morning she burnt her tongue for the first time. Peter still drinks his black. The routine kills, but it's the only constant thing in their lives.

Something is going on and getting too careless has made it harder to keep up their little act. His fingers tighten around his mug and the table hides her shaky knees. The turmoil in her stomach must be the caffeine, naturally, and there's no discussion of what really occupies their minds. Saying loud it is making it real and thoughts don't count, even with Peter.

Somewhere between the toast and cereal she finally voices the question about Nathan. A negative response follows and he keeps his paranoia to himself. Of course he should have called by now. Any normal brother would have. Instead, what they get is Mohinder, rattling on about his discovery and Claire's face falls. – Fine. They might as well go.

-

Chewing on his food extra-slow, he pretends they're not lagging. The balcony looks ominous, but taking the cab would be admitting that this is becoming uncomfortable for them both… What if they try teleportation this time? He swallows his drink, wondering why getting stuck in the future now seems just a second worse option.

Hands on her waist, he thinks he's burning holes in her sweater. Anything? He opens his eyes, and they're still on the exact same spot. Claire's face is expectant, maybe nervous, fingers tap on his lapels. Her eyebrows inch a little higher: Mohinder's apartment, focus… Right. How did Hiro to do that?

Half an hour later, he throws some bucks to the driver and Claire slams the door behind her.

The apartment building peers at them with a hundred black eyes and he takes her by the hand, thinking that she needs guidance. His fingers ache through her body, but she won't pull away, afraid it might get worse. Her guardian angel is a paranoid nurse, and she has to remind herself that she's not actually sick.

The door squeaks plaintively in the dim-lit passage. "Let's go," he mumbles to himself and waits her to follow.

* * *

Veronica's shift starts at 8 am. Around half past eleven she slips out, two slender legs flashing under the tight skirt. It's a bit of a stretch, Sylar thinks, but surprises have served him well so far. And he's always wanted to try this one. She returns ten minutes earlier than usual and smiles at the security control. Today, she takes the ninth floor and disappears at the turn. This is also the last time the surveillance camera ever picks her up.

The files, the documents – everything he needs is behind that metal door. He could use his will to pull it open, but the security is a nuisance and he can't risk any more encounters with the Haitian. There's got to be another way. He studies the panel. The '3' and the 'A' buttons look slightly worn among the others. And for an instant, letters and numbers gleam bright on the display and all he has to do is type in the code.

With a beep that sounds a lot like a triumph the doors slide open. Sylar laughs; he is coming to like Anthony, after all.

-

Once inside, he finds everything he's ever dreamed of. The entire collection of specials – not a stingy little list anymore, but the whole thing, along with addresses and ways how to track them down. But time is sparse. Some more code breaking and he's in the computer database. Technopathy, regeneration, self-propelled flight – all of them will have to wait, for there's something much more important at stake. His own survival.

_Molly._

The photo of a little girl is smiling at him from the screen, obviously taken before she became an orphan, before she knew anything about the boogeyman named Sylar. Yes, he's failed to get her – three times, to be exact. And then he forgot about her what with that empath and his cheerleader getting on his way.

He had somehow assumed she had a pretty moderate ability – a passive one like her father's – nothing to fret about. A smaller job to finish later. There was no way of knowing that behind those shiny eyes was hiding a human GPS.

Suddenly, the alarm goes off, wailing throughout the whole complex. Down there, Veronica's body must have been found and his handwriting is as clear as day. Grabbing some files, he rushes off to escape the full lockdown. A janitor, a security guard, an officer. He's here one second and gone the next.

"We lost him," the chief mutters in the transmitter, beaten. The hallway appears empty and Sylar passes him like plain air.

* * *

Meeting at his old place is risky enough. But this­… They stop mid-way.

No. _No way_. "What's she doing here?" Peter's voice is sharp with betrayal and Claire simply wants to turn around and leave the way the way they came.

'_She'_ remains still, delicate hands poised on the hips, hiding any signs of apprehension.

"Relax, she's harmless," Mohinder assures with a wave of hand, trying to quench the flames like a true arbitrator. He knew the scientist was sort of an idealist, but this is plain stupidity. "She can help us with the cure."

Peter eyes them, suspicious. "How do you mean?"

He explains that Elle is suffering from the same thing as his niece. A bit more different manifestation, but it helps us to understand the cause.

_It's spreading_, Claire thinks with horror. A quick glance at Peter. _Oh no._

He doubts it. "How did she get it? You said it's not contagious."

Mohinder pauses before continuing. Elle shifts uncomfortably under his stare.

"Apparently, it can be transmitted through blood transfusion. Your blood, Claire."

-

Dragging the geneticist to the adjoining room, Peter confronts him about his decision. How can he trust her? She's dangerous and a liability. Mohinder insists they have no other choice. Peter says they do. "She's Bob's daughter, for God's sake. She will change sides, if made to choose."

"Then let's not make her."

They will never know who dropped the match in the fuel, but by the time they get back from arguing, the two girls are already tangled on the floor, no longer distinguishable. There's a mess of blond hair, bandaged limbs struggling for dominance, and a total disregard for the past injuries. One of them is winning, but they're too occupied with separating the two to find out which.

Darting forward, the men break the scuffle. Claire stops kicking in Peter's arms. Glaring at her opponent, she wipes away some of the blood from her lips: bright red flowing, still flowing as they stand there. The fight is over.

"What was that about­–" Mohinder starts. So much of the peacemaking.

Ruffled and angry, Elle glares back, rubbing her wounded arm, and readjusts the sling. Neither is going to explain the incident.

* * *

After the scuffle, the tension has died out. Mohinder's low voice rumbles in the room and Claire closes her eyes, wishing to forget about the predicament of their situation. The Indian tea, always the authentic one, is cooling untouched in front of her. She's had enough burns for one day.

"I think we've found the inhibitor, Claire. Your immune system went into overdrive after coming into contact with the pathogen. The antibodies now react to the irregular genes, treating to their manifestation like a disease." Great. Even her body is fighting against her.

Peter squints, recalling just bits and pieces – autoimmune was not his specialty at the med school. But Suresh is not done with the explaining.

"The special genes are fully blocked, all their functions disabled. That's why Claire's blood won't clot and Elle is vulnerable to electricity."

There's no hiding that Mohinder is obviously excited about the whole discovery. Regardless of his enthusiasm, the whole talk about the endless possibilities of suppressing the dangerous gene mutations like Maya's has no effect on Peter. For all they know, it could become just another weapon.

All he wants is to find the cure.

-

Mohinder is hesitant to confirm this theory without further testing, but dares to make a conjecture that the regenerating abilities of Claire's blood before the infection might be able to reverse it. Just a portion for her and she will be able produce the rest.

"Save the cheerleader, save everyone else," Peter smirks dimly. He's already been there.

She knew it was a mistake to withhold her blood. They had been too busy saving Nathan, taking sides, fighting their invisible enemy, and he wouldn't let anyone take as much as a drop from her. Those ten samples could have saved her life and many others.

Peter asks, clearing his throat, "What about my blood? I absorbed Claire's ability." Mohinder just shakes his head, but he already knew it wouldn't do. Just like his blood wouldn't save his brother.

There's got to be another way. And there is.

Back in the streets, drifting through people with Claire close to him, he comes up with a plan.

"We need to find Hiro."

* * *

The place hasn't changed much since the last time. Same walls, same floor, first door to the left. People greet him and he doesn't know where he's met them.

"I'm here for Molly Walker."

The female officer double checks his ID, saying they are very careful with the witness protection program. "Just a second… " And it's all he can give. There's more than one life at stake.

He didn't see it coming. Parkman's fist hits the desk in an uncharacteristic burst of rage, sends papers flying off the pile. "What do you mean she's gone?"

The woman is taken aback by his behavior, nervously pushes up her glasses and checks the files again. It says that he already picked her up this afternoon. – "It can't be." The alarm was just an hour ago.

She looks up at him, equally surprised, and confirms the earlier statement. It's true: Matt Parkman came here earlier today and took the girl away for safety.

"Taken… where?" – "We have no information on that." But he's already gone.

He's too late. Just an hour too late. Curses echo in the elevator, floors blink in numbers, counting down to zero. He has lost her. The reflection morphs from the stout policeman back to Sylar's true form. He looks himself in the eye for the briefest moment.

_Failed. Again. _

On the ground floor, when the doors slide open an elderly man steps out.

* * *

Being kept in the dark – quite literally so – he's been given more questions than he has answers for. The ties are too tight and the blind on his eyes feels like a bandage. He swallows the terror, mouth impossibly dry. Hours pass by and the unseen interrogator is not returning. To shorten the time he's started naming the headaches: a concussion is worse than a hangover, worse than being slapped by a woman, but then again, raising from the dead surely beats everything.

A clank and a pair of hurried steps on the carpet. Cold fingers grope for his hands, a sharp blade and the bandage falls off easily.

"Stupid," a voice hisses through the darkness, but there's no menace behind it. "Why did you have to come? I'm risking everything for this."

Nathan smiles in the dark – he knows that voice. Rubbing the sore rings around his wrists he follows her to the light. Dressed in full black, Niki Sanders stares at him accusingly before she pulls him with her through the winding passage.

Breathless from the run, they both slump against opposite walls, listening to the guards run in the other direction. Then the silence.

He spends the empty minutes studying her closely. He's not sure what he was hoping to see. After the hosipitals and morgues, he wasn't expecting anything anymore. But she seems well enough, aside from the redness carefully hidden under the turtleneck and the long sleeves. Her face is tired, though, ghastly pale in the fluorescent lights, and the perspiration glimmers on her brow.

She certainly hasn't got better since the last time.

-

"Why are you doing this?"

Opening her eyes, she brings bright blue into the general monochrome, wide awake and strangely distant. She doesn't expect him to understand.

Apparently, she's got herself involved in some kind of a shady deal that has her participating in a research in order to pay for the necessary treatment. That was her best offer. Until now.

"You must leave." He's got the cure, it'll be fine. She's free.

Niki remains reluctant, doesn't tell him why. Instead, a shaky hand runs through the flaxen hair. Nathan leans forward, aggravated, "You can't keep doing this, working from them, developing God knows what."

"It's not _them_," she rasps at him in the hallway, her head hitting the wall with a muted thud. Nathan looks at her, puzzled. She's right – he doesn't understand.

"What did you say?"

The woman pauses, taking a full breath. "I'm saying… it's not Bob or _the_ Company."

* * *

_To be continued…_

- - -

Notes: This update took much more time than any other (I think I went through the first minor block). But it was a central part of the plot and important to get it right for the upcoming episodes.

Plot details: Autoimmune. I'm not an expert on this subject, but as far as the Heroes universe goes, the limits of science are stretched, so to say. I suppose this condition is no more impossible than Nathan flying thanks to some lucky genes. However, if something seems really off the mark, feel free to inform me.

Candice's power. I read it from an Internet source that it has something to do with bending light rather than being a mental manipulation. So I guess it should work on video cameras as well.

- - -

Chapter eight will be up in about four or five days, I hope.

There's a lot going on and more to follow. So, keep on reading and let me know what you think. Comments are always welcome!


	8. Chapter 8: Leaving and Being Left

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. Canon-based AU.  
**

The morning of Day 8. Peter, Nathan, Claire et al. New dynamics and the older ones changing. An easier chapter again, hence the early update.

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**Rating**: T

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_Is this motion everlasting_

_Or do shutters pass in the night?_

Lyrics by Interpol

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**Chapter 8: Leaving and Being Left**

He's dreaming again. It always starts with flying. But this time, he's falling, from a rooftop, much like the first time, only his coat is no longer white. He spreads his arms and the coat is flapping like dark wings, unable to carry him. Like a bullet, he rips through the air, wind chiming in his ears… There's something below, but he can't tell what. He only knows he must catch it before he lands.

Jolting up from the bed, Claire's hand stops him mid-air, forcing him to lay back. He gasps for air, eyes squeezed shut, willing the nightmare to pass away, release the hold at his mind. But the illusion is an exceptionally real one, complete with the fractured bones and aching chest. And it doesn't fade. For a moment, he lets himself relapse to the dream, the scene playing forward…

"Peter." Her voice materializes from his dreams; eyes grave and searching as she utters his name with concern. He blinks at the white ceiling. He's awake. It's real. And with it, a notion of something wrong penetrates the reality. It takes a moment for him to realize what it is.

Propping up on his elbows, he asks what's happened. Claire is wide awake. She's dressed and hasn't been sleeping, in his bed or her own. In her fist, there's his phone and the hope flares up in an instant.

"Nathan?"

* * *

The hours draw nearer to the dawn and they watch the desert from the window of a road café, not unlike the one he once landed at, wearing nothing but his pajamas. They witness the sky turn from deep blue to azure, before the pinkish horizon starts casting light on her face – a golden gleam of sun that doesn't warm either of them, really.

At the first sensible hour, they go to the payphone and Nathan searches his pockets for some change. They've got three minutes. The blonde watches him drop dimes and quarters; they clank shrill in the lingering dusk.

"Peter?" An agitated voice replies, asking where he's been, they've been worried sick, Claire–...

Nathan's head tilts against the metal surface. No time for this now. – "Look, I'll explain it to you later, Pete. Just how quickly can you get me the blood?" Niki is leaning against the wall, arms wound tightly around her, and watches him intently.

"What?" A sharp breath and the shock is plainly visible on his face.

It seems that the world has entirely changed while he was away. Unbreakable girls bleed deep crimson and his brother is chasing ghosts again. "What do you mean it's not working anymore?"

The first car drives up from the road and he struggles to hear the message repeated. There's no doubt in what it means.

-

Yes, he's screwed up again. He admits it, but it doesn't change the outcome. Niki idly fingers her cup, doesn't say much, doesn't blame him, although he knows she should, and he wouldn't mind – anything other than the blameless ease is welcome. He muses how he tends to have this kind of effect on the women. It's as if they've stopped expecting anything from him, and therefore cannot be disappointed.

"What's done is done," she offers, in a defeated voice, like it happens all the time. And it does, in her case. Wistful, she keeps her eyes on the road, probably worried about Micah. Nathan's rubs his forehead, thinking.

The hand falls, an expensive watch exposed by the rolled-up sleeves. "We're still going to get the cure."

Niki just laughs. A strangely breathless sound ripping the silence. "What, you think they'll still give it to me if I just ask nicely?"

His brow crooks slightly into his trademark quirk.

"Who said anything about asking?"

-

If there's anyone besides Peter thinking he's a hero, it must be that kid. Micah runs out to the front yard, landing neatly in his mother's arms. Nathan stays behind not to be an intruder in the reunion. It touches him strangely and draws his mind back to his own sons. Some day, he'll be able to do the same. Even though it seems more and more improbable, given the way things have progressed.

"Mom. Are you leaving again?" The boy can tell. And her sad eyes don't hide much. – "Baby, I have to. I'm not well yet. I need to get better before I can stay with you." Her promises are loosing their effect.

"You always say that." – "This time, I mean it."

She wipes away some moisture around her eyes, strokes his hair, thinking he's grown again, even if it's impossible in such a short time. As time goes by, Micah is growing to be more adult than she, much more smarter and better at this. Niki only wishes she could see him do that.

"Stay with Monica, okay? Be careful. If you see anyone following you, anyone suspicious…"

"Mom, what's going on?" – "Nothing, honey, I just want you to be careful, all right?"

He nods. Sure, can do. She smiles. Nathan goes to his car and ignites the engine.

"I'm sorry," he says as the boy recedes from their view. The woman barely blinks. – "Yeah. Me too."

* * *

There's the distinct blend of gasoline and various fumes in the air. Coaches heave and puff like some old workhorses under their burden, creaking loud, before coming into full stop.

Claire sighs and it's chilly enough for her breath to condense into a small puff of vapor. They sit, side by side on the bench, his thumb drawing idle circles on her hand, slightly above her wrist. A gesture of encouragement, a pang of regret, or just a simple human contact? She doesn't want to think. Instead, she concentrates on the pattern of ellipses on her skin, spelling infinity.

Up until now, she's never considered what it means to be a breakable girl. Mohinder can explain it all he wants and she can listen to him – while still trying to be mad –, but the truth is right here, with Peter. She can't be with him, now that she's so vulnerable. It's as if some bond of theirs has become brittle, ready to break and they're trying to save it, holding on tightly. She was the one who couldn't die.

Maybe, it's worth becoming immortal again, living forever. If only for this.

-

Her father (her _dad_) has no superpowers, but around him, she feels the safest – after Peter, that is. Claire has been waiting for him to step out of one of those roaring buses, thick rimmed glasses and everything; she wants to run and greet him, but in order to do that, she has to let go of Peter first. The hand slips from hers and Peter is giving her one of those 'go ahead' smiles.

Together, they discuss some of their plans, but Claire has the feeling the two men are on entirely different tracks. In essence, this meeting is nothing but a long handover ceremony, together with some uneasy glances, and again, she's happy it's Peter, not his brother. With Nathan, it would be almost political. As there's no time for any of them, he rises, saying goodbye to 'Mr. Bennet' and she leaps up to grab a proper hug before he leaves for a mission for God knows how long…

"Hey, I'm coming back," he refutes her thoughts, neck weighed down by her tiny frame. She tightens her hold once more, wishing her dad wasn't watching. There's nothing she can do about it. But she places a small kiss on his cheek, the stubble rough on his jaw, and draws back to see his reaction.

He looks confused, abashed, until she smiles and states that he's "still her her hero". Laughing at the reference to their first meeting, he turns and vanishes into the crowd.

-

Claire sighs, and leans onto her father, asking what next. Who is going to stop this madness? How many times they have to kill Sylar? Is there ever going to be a time when they can stay at one one place without fear? He draws his arms into a comforting hug, making her realize the difference between this and the earlier connection. "I don't know Claire-bear," Noah answers, "I don't know."

Something soothingly familiar invades her conscience with the smell of his jacket, the smell of Odessa and California, the smell of mornings with burnt waffles, the smell of home. Bennet lifts up his glasses and rubs his eyes, telling her she looks grownup, and it's like she's just returning from a summer camp. Only it's not a camp. And she's nowhere near returning.

"So, how's mom?" she asks, as they are back in motion, the early sun greeting them outside the terminal.

"She's fine," her dad assures, "I told her it's taking you a while longer. With all that's going on with your relatives…"

She can imagine that. "It is, isn't it?" He looks at her, puzzled.

"Taking long, I mean."

* * *

Ando is sitting like mediator between the two superpowers, more or less like a guarantee that nothing goes wrong. The café is an old one and inconspicuous; the prices are temptingly low and the two order some waffles. Peter refuses, nervously rubbing his stubble around his mouth and chin. This is going to be complicated at best. "No, nothing for me." The waitress leaves.

"You don't see it," Peter huffs. "It's not just Claire, there's this woman, Niki Sanders, she's got the virus. She needs the blood or she'll die." – "Niki?!" Ando repeats and the world is smaller than he had thought.

_"Hiro, you've got to save her!"_ the companion shouts in Japanese all of a sudden.

His friend is not happy with him changing sides in this debate. "No-no-no. Bending time is risky, very risky. You can't go into the past, you ruin everything. Trust me, I know. I've been there."

The topic of Adam is still a bit touchy and some embarrassment over the past incidents creeps up his neck. "That's why I need you to help me, Hiro," Peter explains, waving his hands like he's about to lift them in the air, right from their seats. Ando fidgets slightly, but he doesn't notice. "You can stop me from doing anything wrong. Without you, I might end up anywhere."

Hiro thinks and still shakes his head. He doesn't want to do this. "You can't save the world by losing the future." A pause follows, filled with the clack of cutlery in the distance. The waitress drops a plate and it shatters to the ground. Hiro doesn't try to stop this. Things have gained a new perspective.

"Fine," the empath accedes, but that was never the plan anyway. "Then you can tell me how to find Adam."

* * *

Elle yawns for the third time. Either Mohinder is boring or his couch is not the best place to sleep on. With Matt returning from wherever he had been, the place has become crammed. The cop eyes her with suspicion, but doesn't form an opinion, yet. He keeps looking at her, though. And with a start she remembers he can read minds.

Quickly, she tries to block out everything, but images of Bob and the conversations in the office pop up like there's no stopping. Fortunately, she's not sure what she's supposed to be doing here in the first place and Matt only shakes his head, telling her he'll keep an eye on her. – _Oh great, another watcher._ – The cop frowns.

Suresh isn't happy, but treats her well enough. He's just agitated that he's lost his friends' trust so easily. Elle pokes at the dish of something spicy and formless and wonders if that's what they have for breakfast in India."You'd be surprised," the other man mumbles and stuffs his face nonetheless. Living with Mohinder all these months must have ended up in a stomach of steel. – "Hey!"

The cook gets tired of this onesided conversation and says they should speak up or stop mind reading. She couldn't agree more.

-

As a last positive gesture, she volunteers to clean up the dishes – hope is persistent, you see – and tries to eavesdrop through the splash of tapwater. In the back room, there's a discussion concerning many things, but she catches just a few words of it. Something about Molly and Peter, and Sylar, per usual. The last one makes Mohinder shift and he looks up to her. She knows that face.

She finishes washing up, dries the plates, too. Then waits for the verdict. And it's just like with his father. As if nothing has changed at all.

Finally, one of them speaks to her, "Matt has found us a new place. It's not safe in here."

Elle lets out the breath she's been holding, throws away the towel. They take the bags and she has none, of course. Suresh checks the windows, the stove, like he's hoping to return.

Emptied and still, the apartment sighs with relief as the door closes behind them.

* * *

In the cemetery, amidst the lush green grass and Japanese epitaphs, he begins to understand why they needed a shovel – or 'a shauwel', according to Hiro Nakamura. To be honest, he didn't expect this from that little guy. This penalty is rather gruesome, even with all the bad that Adam has done over the years. He only guesses that Hiro must have loved his father dearly.

"Peter Petrelli," Hiro calls him, just like in his dreams, and he turns and faces him, puzzled. "You want to save the cheerleader or not?"

Shaking up the memories, he catches up with him and stops at a relatively fresh grave. This must be it. Hiro is sure.

There are many ways of doing this. Going in there would be rather dangerous for Hiro. Peter could phase through the ground and bring him up. Or they can do it the traditional way and just dig him up, have him trapped inside the coffin. Yes, the last one fits the best.

Back in Japan, it's the early morning of the next day and they are the only ones moving. After a while, Peter throws the tool aside and the soil begins to move itself at his will. A jet of sand sprouts up, forming neat little heaps on either side, while Hiro starts coughing and waves off the flying particles. Then the air clears and they see it. The wooden casket, fully intact for them to open.

They hesitate for a second, afraid find the asphixiated face, frozen in time. Hiro is quiet, pensive.

"Let's do it."

With a wave of a finger, the casket flies open, revealing its contents.

What they find inside is worse than what they dreamed of. They stare at it, shocked, and Hiro almost restarts the time again.

Just some white linen and nothing else. He's gone.

* * *

_To be continued…_

- - -

Notes: I'm not going to predict my update rate any more, since there's no point in it really, and I don't like withholding my chapters on purpose. Even if it does give me a nice break. However, I think I can say they're coming pretty fast these days. (See? I'm already contradicting myself.)

For those wondering about my take on Peter and Claire: I have a plan in mind how to make them work (if not close to canon, then at least logical canon-wise). In truth, I'm not very eager to uncomplicate things for them, but they deserve a chance, don't they? Regarding the other storylines, there's some further character development on the way and action to follow. So… stay tuned!

- - -

Thank you for reading. Comments are lovely ;)


	9. Chapter 9: Priorities

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. AU.**

Day 8 continues. Claire, Peter, Nathan, HGR, Hiro, Niki, plus others. Lots of plotting before the real action begins.

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**Rating**: T

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_It's a sentimental jury_

_And the makings of a good plan_

Lyrics by Interpol

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**Chapter 9: Priorities**

Once again, the traffic blurs into a haze of darting colors and distant noise that doesn't quite register. Claire shakes herself awake and begins to grasp the full effect of a sleepless night on a fragile body. Noah observes her nodding on and off, but decides to let her rest. After the fifth attempt, she frowns, stretching her muscles and her aching neck.

She must have slept for real this time. A few blinks and the visions are replaced by the confined space of the cab in the busy New York mid-afternoon. For an undefined moment, she had seen the warm sunny California, mom and Lyle, and some argument about him eating potato chips on her bed. She laughs and her dreams scatter to the streets, under the wheels of bustling cars and nameless masses.

If everything goes well, Peter will be back soon and she'll be okay. If okay means having a chance of living forever and becoming something like Adam – a deluded and embittered human being, who's way too old to count the decades past.

"Tired?" Noah inquires, a hand brushing her cheek, and she shudders with exhaustion as she lies "not really". It's not about resisting sleep, it's postponing it until she hears from Peter again, or when there's nothing left to share with her dad anymore. The doubts resurface as she realizes how the time spent with him might be just that – some brief decades in the course of time.

A warm smile and another suggestion that she should sleep. Claire fights the fatigue, forces her eyes open – she can rest on moments that don't count.

* * *

The radio is still playing the same tune when they return. Ando buries them under questions, but Hiro just stares down at his waffles – seems like an age ago – and pushes his glasses up to his dark fringe. Clearly no good news. Peter tries to explain how they lost him. Some more thinking follows and he catches only parts of it, the rest is in Japanese.

The waitress, bleached hair and a crooked smile, comes by for more orders. Peter humors her with a coffee and sends her off to the other, hungrier customers. Hiro speaks up, determined to amend his mistakes. And here they go again – saving the world from the madman that won't die.

"Adam is my responsibility," the time-bending Japanese says, resolute, and assumes that 'bad-ass' expression, as Ando puts it. "I will help you catch him again."

The empath breathes, his shoulders flexing as if a couple of hundred pounds were lifted from them. "Good. All we need to do is relocate him." And he thinks he knows how.

-

"He what?" Bennet sounds agitated on the phone, turns his gaze to his precious girl, and hope drains from his features. "How could he possibly get out?" And he must be seeing things, because that can't be relief mirrored on her face.

Ignoring the disappointment in the other voice, Peter continues with his plans, their plans. There's only one missing piece in the puzzle. And he can help them. The former company man is catching up with the idea and speeds up till they reach the elevators. The button lights up. A little red triangle. Claire tries her best to make out the words from the buzz that spills from the phone.

"Give me some time. I think I can arrange it, they haven't left town yet." Noah glances at his watch and sets the time and place. Two hours, that should do. – "Two hours till what?" the girl insists, as they enter the small metal cubicle to lift them up.

Bennet pushes the number 10. Something close to accomplishment flickers around his lips. "Till we get your powers back."

* * *

If there's something that can stop them, it must be the ruthless afternoon blaze, burning black holes into his spotless resolve.

Painted metal searing into his palms, Nathan studies the map and asks again if she really heard that name. Niki sighs with frustration, partly because of the doubts, partly because of the sun that doubles its force on her black sweater and jeans. "Yeah, I'm positive," she mutters while all she can think about is some cold water.

Spread out on the hood of the car, the wind pulls at edges of the map. A hand on Oregon and Pennsylvania, Nathan stops it from flying away. The rescuing breeze is short-lived and he removes one to scratch his head, hair getting sticky with sweat. To be honest, a frosty beverage is not so far from his thought either. "Hitmen and black suits… Sounds too much like Linderman to me."

"Linderman is dead." But so are they, officially. With all that's been going on, how can they be sure about anything? They could have used Adam's power to bring him back and just moved their activity underground…

"I told you, he's dead."

"How do you know that?" – "Because I saw it. We… my husband, D.L. killed him." Nathan stares at her, but she keeps looking into the sun, at her boots, kicking a stone in the roadside dust. "Right through the scull…"

"Okay," he produces finally. One more mystery solved. And another one rises.

-

"We should still go," Nathan decides, pulling over at the mall with a gas station and trucks around it. "It's our best shot." Niki nods at that, nearly collapsed from the heat and hidden illness. Fine. But first, they need that pit stop.

Swallowing large gulps of ice cold soda, he sees her slim figure appear in the side mirror. The door opens and shuts and the blonde lands on the back seat with several carrier bags, rustling with the plastic and pulling off the price tags. "Got everything you need?"

Nathan leans over his shoulder, but stops and pulls right back. Hitching the dark sweater over her head, she's changing into something more suitable. "Yeah," she answers, staring back from the rear-view mirror, long past the point of feeling uncomfortable while undressing in front of men. And it's not like he hasn't seen her before.

But still, no need to pry.

He stares down, waiting for the bustle at the back to stop. His practiced ear identifies as the snatch of a bra. The wheel, the radio, the dashboard, it's all covered with shiny surfaces and he notices something red running across her left side and arms – the only proof of being in the burning building. Quickly, she covers the damaged skin with silky white fabric.

"You still haven't told me how you got out of there." They both know what he's talking about. She flinches visibly, but keeps fumbling with the buttons.

"The exit was blocked, so I had to take my chances. I reached a back door before the whole thing exploded." She gathers her hair in a pony tail, a red bruise marring her alabaster neck. The rest of her account is somewhat familiar, with the treatment, the facility and the virus. "Seemed like a plan as good as any."

Stepping out of the car she dumps everything into a large trash-can at the parking lot. Fresh and changed, she reappears on the front seat and throws her jacket to the back. "I'm done now."

* * *

Peter stands alone amidst the incessant flow of yellow cabs, flashing ads, pedestrians and tourists, feeling strangely lost in the crowd. Hiro has vanished, quite literally, and the present is his to handle. And maybe, it's too much for one man.

Sometimes, he wishes he had a twin, or better yet – make it triplets. This way, one could chase Sylar, the other one destroy the Company, and the third one could look for Adam. But he's in singular. Just one Peter. And even that one doesn't know what to do with the hours he's been given.

Traffic lights change and he has to step aside to avoid being crushed by the flow. He picks a direction, lets himself be carried along, thinking what to do next. The phone feels heavy and light in his hand, he flips it, once, twice… and he does what he has always done.

-

"Nathan," a worried voice sounds in the receiver, "we have a problem."

"Tell me something new, Pete." – "No. I mean, Adam has escaped."

"Escaped? From where?" The younger brother gives him a brief overview of this trip to Japan. Nathan huffs; things were difficult enough even before the Monroe character popped up again. Another villain to chase.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I need you here. We need to find him." A sigh on the other end. – "I'm on my way to Texas. We've got a lead. We're going after the organization, to get the cure."

"Don't you get it? Adam _is_ the cure." –"Well, there's another one. And looks like our backup plan is the better one in this case." Peter prepares a retort, but falls silent. And just like that, it begins to dawn on him, slowly but clearly.

"Peter. You still there?" – Not for long. The little brother mutters something about connections before he abruptly ends the call. _Yeah. See you too_.

-

Did he arrive early? This must be the right place: the address matches, the statue, the bench, but he can't find them.

"Peter!" A dash of gold and he's trapped, wrapped in her arms, and happy, somehow. With a fright, he realizes he's yet again placed the sole importance on one living, breathing human being. He never intended to get attached. Not anyone, after what happened to Caitlin. But they were never given the choice. The connection was there in the paintings, the Homecoming night… he was lead to her and she had already become his mission. Protect her, save her, keep her close.

He remembers to pull away as Bennet steps up and greets him, shakes his hand, much like he's the employee of the month. Strands of her hair still feel crisp between his fingers and he tucks his hand in the pockets to get that sensation off. He doesn't know how much of it shows, but Noah is tense himself, although for an entirely different reason.

There's not much time, you see, and Sylar already got close to her once. She has to be taken away immediately. Peter listens and nods, while all he knows is small fingers sneaking into his palm. Vaguely, he realizes that if Bennet leaves town for this, Claire will be alone for a while.

"Don't worry, I've got it covered," the company man asserts, but doesn't specify. "All you need to do is get the blood."

* * *

The door creaks open and Elle slips in, excited like on her first day of school. Except, she's never attended any. "Daddy!" Bob almost snaps his neck at the half-whisper and his fears are coming true. His daughter, in all her 24 years of experience, walks in like she's still a kid visiting him during the lunch break.

Bob seems especially edgy today, looks at her like she's the exploding man. "Elle, what are you doing here?" The sharpness of his tone robs her courage. Clenching her jaw, she fights it back. – "Nothing, I just wanted to see you." He sighs heavily and puts down one of the boxes.

"Your being here puts us both at risk." She doesn't get it. Something is obviously wrong and the way her own explanations are not very convincing.

Tracing an absent finger over the wood, he notices the picture of her proud father with the fish is missing. She had always loved that photo. Probably because she's always wished to see him like that. Happy. Pleased. With her, of course.

-

But now, the image is gone and she looks at him to see that face, only in different form. God – Daddy looks absolutely alarmed. What can possibly be so frightening about Suresh? The poor guy trembles at the mere thought of a gun.

"There is no risk. They're all gone somewhere. And I'm not part of their team anyway," she states, idly picking at his golden pens.

Elle's careless manners are slowly taking their toll. The company boss breathes in and out while pacing around the glass cabinets, filled with files, books, and trophies – many of them missing. His daughter watches him, and he finally faces her, staring down at her with something of an utter contrast to her playful vibe.

"You can't be here," he says slowly, but steadily, the gaze behind the heavy rims dark and unreadable.

"You have to leave now, Elle." A hand lands on her shoulder, almost patting, and there's no menace in the low voice as he repeats his request. Go.

* * *

Matt doesn't like open spaces much. Too many voices to filter, too much static to block out and like with the audible noise, important things often go missing. Finally, the one he's expecting appears in the crowd, notices him and delves through the people to where he's standing. "Peter? Is that you?"

"Yeah. Who else would it be?" Reading his thoughts, Parkman shakes off the paranoia and seems convinced enough. Lately, he can't seem to be able to trust anyone.

Leading the way, he takes a few turns as if shaking someone off. They rush through buildings, parks, some of the emptier spaces, and Matt seems extra careful.

Finally, they enter a building, glass walls and concrete floor. He looks around, trying to identify the place, but there's no time for that now. Parkman walks up to the foyer, greets someone and steps away to reveal Dr. Suresh with a young girl. No more than eleven, he guesses.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet." She stares up at the two men, bright-eyed and sad all at the same time. Matt gently nudges her shoulder, encouraging her to take a step forward.

"Peter, this is Molly."

* * *

_To be continued…_

- - -

Notes: I hate to admit that writing this fic has me pretty scared. Not so much about the plot, but how to put it all together and keep it running smoothly. This is also my first time of writing anything of such extent or amount of characters. So yeah, the great unknown.

Warning: Ships may emerge. You may have noticed the possible Nathan/Niki vibes. I've always been a bit intrigued about this in the show, so I might explore their dynamics a bit further, especially given the parallels between their situation.

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Edit /24 Apr/ : Final adjustments of the plot. Also, I cut one future story arch, as it didn't contribute to the general storyline. Peter and Claire are still in it - not necessarily in a romantic way, but still enjoyable, I hope. I'm currently working on the next chapter, hopefully have it uploaded soon.

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Any feedback about the progressing story is helpful, and huge thanks to those who have took the trouble and commented on this!


	10. Chapter 10: The Trigger Part One

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. AU.**

The first half of the double length action chapter. Nathan, Niki, Peter, Hiro, Adam, etc. Sorry for the long wait, lots of time and effort went into making this.

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**Rating**: T

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_It took a life spent with no cellmate_

_To find the long way back_

Lyrics by Interpol

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**Chapter 10: The Trigger – Part One  
**

It's long into the afternoon when they arrive and the sun has lost most of its earlier fervor. Mellow and warm, it peeks sadly behind the low-rise buildings and traces their outlines on the dusty asphalt. It didn't take them long to get what they need. Money can buy anything regardless of the state. Niki tucks the handgun between the belt, adjusts her jacket, pretends it's nothing. But the weight is there. It hinders her movement and she can feel it digging into her hip with each turn. Nathan wears his deep in the pocket of his coat – it's bulky and unstable like this, but it doesn't obstruct him.

There's a strange sense of power that comes with owning a weapon, stimulating and repulsive at the same time. Like having control over life and death. Their guns look the same - black and metallic, with a wooden grip. Bullets glint golden and roll between his fingers as he fills the magazine. One, two…

_Just a couple of millions._ But that bid is off, the night long gone. He's borne the scars and earned his pardon. And he should be able to forget.

Niki remains quiet and their plan surely has its flaws. Despite her casual manners with the guns, her eyes betray the fact that it was Jessica who did all the killing. Still, it doesn't need to come to that. They can be quick and deft and soundless. Invisible would be even better.

The Primatech building looms reddish in the setting sun. Casting away their doubts, they pass the light and shades, closing the few hundred yards that separate them from the answers. This place, the beginning of everything, will be revealing its last important secret.

* * *

Peter squints at the brooding sky, suspecting a shower, if not a downpour any time soon. The air is ripe, sticky with fumes and a mixture of smells, ready to be cleansed. But he won't be here to witness it.

Hiro shows up at 9 pm sharp.

With his cheerful shirts and geeky cardigans and the Kenzei sword, he looks the same as always. But time never had an effect on him to begin with. Peter catches the sight of them and jumps down from the railing, instantly visible again. Meeting them half way, he shakes their hand and glances around. Tense and morose in the perpetual dark coat, he is bound to clash or balance the general mood.

"Did it work?" Hiro asks. Peter nods. _At least it will, soon._

He even bought a map along the way, figuring that some practice would do him good. The ability is still new to him and locating Adam may have been a lucky guess under the instruction of Molly. In the end, it doesn't matter how he did it. There'll be plenty of time to practice, after they've got this little problem it out of their way.

"Yeah, we can go now."

-

There are endless possibilities in their cooperation, Peter realizes. He points and Hiro shoots, figuratively speaking. And he never did like working on his own. Nathan says he's too dependent. That's not true, you know – he just likes some assistance. Because maybe then he won't screw up again.

As the stuffs away the map, Hiro seems to consider for a moment, then nods sharply as if remembering. Ando stays behind this time and there's some strange glint shining in his eyes. Awe, perhaps. Peter shifts, amused. With Hiro, everything seemed heroic – straight out of the pages of a comic book.

Cracking into a smile, the friend observes, "It's just like in the future. Only, you don't have that scar." _What?_ Peter thinks, puzzled. They all know he can't scar, ever since that night in Odessa. But he doesn't have time to ask.

A hand on his shoulder, Hiro squeezes his eyes shut and he knows what's coming.

-

In an instant, the city morphs into an empty hallway and wooden doors that proudly bear the company logo. "We're in." There are no windows, so he assumes it's the ground floor.

"Which way?" Hiro asks him, fluorescent lights shining back from his glasses. Peter frowns, trying to concentrate. It doesn't work.

Maybe a map would help. Hiro points at a fire exit plan. But the precise location fails him again, and maybe he rushed with the girl's ability in his impatience to go after the villain. "Nothing," he breathes. All the rooms look the same.

"Is he gone?"

"No. He's here. I just can't–" Peter inhales, focusing once more, but it's like trying to control a limb that has been paralyzed all his life. Defeated, he steps away from the wall.

They hear nothing; in fact, the whole building feels eerily quiet. "I think we should split. Check everything. He's around here, somewhere."

And that's the best plan for now.

* * *

Going through the empty corridors they don't meet a soul – the staff is gone, missing, alarms off and doors unlocked, mostly. Like someone has already done the work for them. They take a turn to the left, stepping over some knocked out guards, maybe dead. It all feels too easy. Easy enough to be a trap.

"What's happened here?" Nathan's voice bounces off the whitewashed walls, unanswered, unheard. Unnecessary. Niki shrugs silently, and reaches for the gun, in case their luck failed them.

He gestures to the stairwell and they descend to the basement floor. The outward correctness ends right here – just plain concrete walls and metal doors. Something that Matt already told him about. Their footfall echoes in the claustrophobic corridor that winds like tunnel, one turn leading to another. And another.

A bloody trail leads them on, but it ends just as abruptly as it started. A few casings lie on the floor, but no bullets. No wounded either. What they find is a door – ajar, pried open.

Venturing inside, they see a lab. Or what used to be a lab. Research and tubes litter the office; papers, files spilled out on the floor as if the cabinets had been overcome by nausea. Clearly, they're not the only ones who came looking for something. And maybe it's been already found.

Niki stoops, picking up some random folders – whole lives encapsulated, analyzed, and put in store. _Died in an accident. Possible suicide. Gone missing. _Some formal way of saying 'eliminated'. She throws it away, disgusted by the cold formality of the accounting.

"Anything?" Nathan asks, discarding another heap of documents. All useless.

"No. Just some dead people."

-

As if to argue his last remark, there's a clack from outside, breaking the silence. A startled glance at Nathan and he must have heard it too. He presses a warning finger on his mouth, but she is already advancing to the door, careful not to make a sound.

For what feels like an eternity, they listen.

Finally, the steps continue, short and hesitant, but definitely progressing. Grabbing his gun, he ducks behind a counter, ready to aim. Another door creaks and the footfall sounds unmistakably near, unmistakably behind the corner. Cocking her gun, Niki ducks against the wall, waits for the intruder to come close. Closer. Close enough.

It's her who reacts first. "Don't move."

Nathan stands up and lowers his gun as he sees who they're aiming at, and gestures Niki to do the same.

It has happened before, in different places, but it was always a sign. "Hiro?"

The eyebrows creep high behind the dark hair and the inevitable follows. "Flying man!"

Nathan laughs briskly, and for once, he doesn't mind the nickname.

* * *

The terminal isn't particularly busy, yet the queue doesn't move one bit. Noah takes out one of his passports and flaps it to the page where he sees himself looking at him. Butler. Claire always hated that name, but it sounded nice and simple to his ears. Simple and unnoticeable. And maybe that's why she hated it.

"Are you sure about this? Maybe you should stay with Claire." Matt is busy mind reading. Or his worrying has become that obvious. "I told you I can handle this alone."

The check in has just started and the gates are open, calling him back.

"She's with the Haitian. It's as safe as it gets," Bennet replies, ignoring the bad feeling in his guts. She's got to be fine. Molly's life is at risk right now and getting her as far away from Sylar as possible is their prime objective. One thing at a time.

The girl rests her tiny head on Parkman's arm and lets out an incoherent mumble. "Hang on, sweetie," Matt answers her and offers a smile that the adults have stopped believing in.

-

The lights blink on and off. No smoking. Fasten the seatbelt. Put your baggage in the overhead lockers. They all know the routine by now.

Molly lets go of Matt's hand and climbs to the window seat, but all she sees is the wet curtain of rain and yet another plane slowly assuming its place on the runway. She's flown before, but she'll need a few dozen times more to lose the excitement. It's taking long, though. The flight attendants bustle, nervous, and keep apologizing for the delay. A group of German tourists make some disgruntled noises and the rattle of Spanish grows louder with the passing time. Bennet sighs, frustrated.

Fifteen minutes and the mess is cleared. The flight is not cancelled. He almost hoped.

Noah shifts on the seat, and reluctantly, he switches off his phone as a pleasant voice declares the impending takeoff. For the next four hours, they hear nothing from New York.

* * *

Second floor. Peter sneaks along the wood paneled corridors, listening for any sound of human activity. Dead bodies are silent. He'd stopped checking for the pulse after three negative results. There are several more in the office spaces – men and women, with their skin already cooling down and he forces himself to keep looking. Somewhere there's the one that's alive.

Finally, he catches a short grunt several doors to the left. Staring at the plaque with the regional manager's name on it, he hears another huff and a muted thud in the space before him. Leaning a hand on the smooth surface, the door yields easily, making a plaintive creak.

There's a man in the leather chair behind the desk and the light from the window casts too little light to be entirely sure.

"Peter, my friend. Thank God you came," Adam shouts, sounding genuinely relieved. And Peter notices why. He is tied up. Hands, feet, the entire body fixed to the desk. Unable to move.

-

"What is this?" Peter questions, suspicious about the whole thing. He scans the guy for clues and notices some holes in his jacket, big enough for a bullet to pass through. A few bullets actually.

Adam writhes in the restraints, gesturing him to take them off. "They tied me up after I tried to escape. Some weird experiments. Give me a hand with this, will ya?" The empath doesn't move a finger. Just crosses his arms.

It doesn't quite add up. He's not offering his assistance and he certainly doesn't believe the guy.

Adam rolls his eyes, sending his head back with an irritated jolt. "I'll explain everything, just get me out of this."

"First, tell me why you're here."

Taking a deep breath, his nostrils flare and he forces himself calm. "There's not time for catching up. Either untie me or we'll both blow into pieces while you get your nice little chat." Peter flinches.

"What are talking about?"

Adam repeats, slow and clear, "The whole building is a time bomb."

* * *

"Great." The older man cheers, finally free from the bonds. "Now, let's get the hell out of here." – "No."

He tries to escape, but bounces against an invisible wall. Peter turns around, heading the other way.

"Hiro's still in the building. Probably Nathan as well."

"You do realize we might not make it if we go after them?"

But the empath doesn't listen, already heading back to the lower floors where he last saw him.

Adam curses him under his breath and then turns to catch up with him. Bloody hero.

-

"We must go back to Peter," Nakamura says, adjusting his sword. – "Just a minute."

On their way out, Nathan found something. An older file, with only half of its contents left, yellowish sheets sticking out in the chalk white papers. He skims the text and it appears to be some kind of a report, difficult to tell what. He looks for the date, but doesn't find it. No company logo, just some weird symbol that–

Some loud noise in the corridor and the echo of two pairs of feet, advancing fast.

"Hiro!"

If he could just find the rest of the file…

"Nathan, let's go," Niki pulls at his arm. "Leave it."

Just a few more seconds…"_You have to teleport us out of here._"He finds the rest of the file. A familiar name on the list. But it might already be too late. A loud bang and the ceiling cracks. Some moments later they'll be buried alive.

A slim hand grabs his wrist and he recognizes Niki's voice in the shattering building.

"Nathaan!" Peter echoes.

He answers, but it's all eroded by the turmoil of falling cement.

* * *

They land on the tarmac ­– all five of them – into the tranquil night of New York City. Covered in dust and cement, they keep on coughing as they try to regain their feet. Somewhere in Odessa, thousands of miles and two hours away, a building collapses into a cloud of dust and piles of debris. They are alive, breathing. Once again, they have cheated death.

Some passers-by give them odd looks. The alley assaults their senses with the putrid smell of rotten food and garbage. The smell of reality.

"What the hell was that?" Nathan mutters and spits out pieces of sand and dust, still clutching the folder that almost cost his life.

Peter and Hiro look positively exhausted. Niki's arm is crushed, coloring purple, shirt torn.

"That was a close call."

Everybody's eyes turn to Adam. The immortal villain stands up, brushing the dust off his Armani suit.

"Would have taken me eons to dig out of that grave."

* * *

_To be continued…_

- - -

Notes: Made some edits to the end notes of the last chapter regarding the shippier storylines. Basically, I've decided to go with the original idea. Don't worry, lots of character interaction and drama still coming.

Next: The parallel part features Sylar, Claire, and Elle. More soon.

- - -

Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed the update. Comment if you're following!


	11. Chapter 11: The Trigger Part Two

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. AU.**

The second half of the action part. A parallel chapter to the previous one. Sylar, Claire, Elle, and others. The last twist before it gets back to the old rhythm.

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**Rating**: T+ for some blood and violence (but that's Sylar)

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_I see that you've come to resist me_

_I'm a pit bull in time_

Lyrics by Interpol

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**Chapter 11: The Trigger – Part Two  
**

It may be too late to get Molly, but he still has his powers and his will. There are things set against him, a whole front of pathetic attempts, but he always breaks through it, unstoppable like the law of nature. They can erect their dams if they want, but it's just buying seconds before the deluge breaks it down again.

Prompted by these musings, a dribble of rain lands on Sylar's hair, the moisture cold against his skin. Sylar gazes the leaking sky, framed by the lofty buildings, high – some thirty stories up to the sky, and he regrets he hasn't been able to catch anyone who can fly. The special have been evading him quite successfully for the last couple of days. Changing locations, new escape strategies, not to mention the annoying mind reader cop – everything seems to go past him, leaving him deserted under the open expanse of the sky.

His shoulders and hair are slowly becoming drenched in the downpour and each individual drop is no longer distinguishable, getting lost in the torrent. A sharp flash and the sky rumbles. Sylar listens, amazed.

Ordinary people – _god, how he hates them_ – hold their briefcases, newspapers, and other makeshift umbrellas over their heads, covering their bodies from the sky as if it were sending burning embers down on their pathetic selves. Sylar watches the streets clear and fill with water. His soaked reflection shrugs in the display window as he takes the only direction he has left.

* * *

There's always the struggle between her and the Haitian. The problem is she can't tell if this is a staring contest or outwaiting the other by silence. Minutes pass and he's not interested in keeping the eye contact or any other form of interaction. In fact, he's so comfortable, so removed in his peace of mind that she can do nothing but stir it.

"I had no idea the Company was so worried about me." She props her feet up on the coffee table in a desperate attempt to regain this space as hers. Theirs, as it had been but days ago, when grease stains from the pizza still registered.

The black guy blinks calmly from the other side, unmoved. "Your father asked me this as a personal favor."

"It's about Sylar, right?" Clare presses. The Haitian tilts his head to the left and keeps his thoughts to himself. She's always found that habit of his infuriating. This and the constant surveillance. No excuses or explanations provided. "Seriously. If I'm in danger, I should know."

"You're always in danger," is the vague reply. Claire sighs, still no further in her quest. It's like banging her head against the wall. Always the same dull bang. – "Great."

This time she gets her answer, much to her surprise. "What do you want me to say? That it's all right? That soon everything will be back to normal?"

"That's not what I meant." – "You already had your chance to leave. More than once. Now, you have to accept what you've got and act accordingly."

-

She has a lot to say about his calm fatalism, his blind obedience, and god knows what else he uses to orientate in this mess, but a ring interrupts her before she gets the chance to argue. There's a pause and an accented 'hello'. His face darkens as he hears the orders on the other end.

"Yes. I'll be right there." Apparently, she was wrong about being the top priority.

The phone slaps shut and finds its way back to his pocket. Unwilling to move, the black man considers it for a moment and rises, poising a gun on the table. "Stay here. I will contact you soon."

"And what if you won't?"

"That is not possible." – Lately, everything is possible. She points that out, but it gets her nowhere.

The watches her grimly, his deep chocolate confronted with her pale honey. The calm mask is split by a crease of worry. And doubt. In the end, they're both restricted by the choices of others.

He leaves. On the door the Haitian gives her a warning stare, fixing her on the spot. "Don't go anywhere."

-

And she won't. For the next hour. She tries watching the cable, checks her phone in every fifteen minutes, hangs around the window that they never picked for its view. And they never needed any. For the first time in weeks, she feels alone. Outside. Trapped. Ironically, being without her powers has turned her into an even bigger freak.

After an hour of waiting and nothing happening, Claire heads for the bathroom, starts peeling off her clothes, layer by layer, not to hurt her oversensitive skin. She checks the water twice before lowering her body into the lukewarm water. The bandage remains on her arm and she traces her fingers over various colored patches on her skin – it's been so long since her last real bruises she can't even remember the way they changed. She wonders how far her body has been incapacitated. Is she able to heal at all?

The curiosity takes over and she peels off the thin layers of gauze, the one that Peter carefully wound around her arm after that silly scuffle with Elle. The dressing falls off, immersed in the water and she discards the wet cloth, figuring she'll manage to make a new one herself.

She's seen dozens of injuries, seen lots of blood and broken bones, she's even gone halfway through the autopsy, but this thing on her arm scares her more than anything, and even with no experience in treating the wounds she's positive it shouldn't be looking like this. Panicking, she leaps out of the bath, nearly slipping on the wet floor, she grabs for the sink as something like nausea washes over her.

She's not freaking out. Not now.

* * *

The Haitian shows up just as he thought. Bringing in the heavy artillery – it's amusing how predictable they have become. Sylar can't see him yet, can't hear him approaching, but he can feel his senses weakening under the nullifying spell.

The last illusions fade as the other man enters the archive. Sylar swallows, hard. There's something chilling, something dangerous in this exposure that had him running from him so many times before. But not now – he's ready and he's come for it. The one power he's coveted more than Peter's. The one that's even harder to get. The one he is going to have now. Or lose all.

So, the hunt begins. In the end, they're both only human and this is as fair as it gets. The towering cabinets are a maze separating them and their footsteps echo like riddles. Whoever cracks it first. Or whoever cracks.

It goes on for some time until there are but one pair of footsteps. The Haitian stops as well, listening. Still nothing. Another turn and all he sees is an empty row of cabinets. A click. He looks up, but the realization comes too late. Sylar leaps down, pinning the other to the ground, the company gun clattering to the floor and skidding away, out of reach.

The Haitian is a fighter, just as he thought, but even he can't take too many direct blows to the head. Amazed at the success, Sylar drops the weapon as the blood starts pooling on the worn linoleum floor. Kneeling on his victim's body, the villain presses his fingers on his throat, a faint pulse still pumping, slowly but steadily. The half-conscious man lifts his fist to hit him one last time before falling back, spent and weary, on the floor.

Sylar touches his neck, right where he was stung, the smallest drop of blood marking the puncture. The hand relaxes, revealing a syringe in the uncoiled fist. The Haitian gives a last little smile before fading into darkness.

-

Desperate, Sylar gropes through the man's pockets to find the poison he was injected with. He discovers a small bottle with a label that doesn't tell him anything.

That moment, something bites his leg and almost soundless, a bullet has found its way to his body without him even hearing the shot. The shooter keeps aiming at him, but misses a few more times. Waking from his confusion, he grabs the gun from the floor and shoots back. But he can't hear it either.

Nothing works. Maybe it's for the reason that the Haitian might still be alive. Out of the door, to the corridor… his abilities should be returning any time now. But they won't.

Everything's gone.

"No!" he almost shouts from his hideout to whatever powers that were mocking him.

It can't be. Not again.

* * *

Claire hits the buzzer. Once. Twice. Thr–… The door opens and, of course, there's the one she was hoping never to meet again. The older blonde stares at her, intrigued, and blocks the way with her better hand. "I need to see Mohinder."

"Tough luck, pom-pom."

Claire sighs, tired of the banter. This is important. The hand falls away from the doorframe. Elle withdraws, the harsh clack of her heels contrasted by soft pad of Claire's sneakers.

Clearly they haven't come far in settling in. Unpacked boxes and computer parts are cluttered in the corner of the living room. Fire escape obstructs the view from the window. It's an old apartment, much like the previous one, just a little bigger. She realizes they're alone.

"He left earlier, some sort of an emergency," Elle declares, walking away to the fridge. With a smirk she adds, "They're all gone." The place gets even tighter.

_Oh_. A part of her is happy Elle was not included. It means they have some sense left. Even though they took her in. "Do you know where he went?"

Elle gives her a look – keeping things from her is really paying back now. Popping off the cap of the bottle, she crooks an eyebrow at her, obviously enjoying her leverage. "I might have an idea."

-

Claire flicks the key lock on and off, unable to reach anyone. Elle watches her frustration, already guessing what this is about. "The condition is getting worse, huh?" she notes, stretched on the couch, putting on a pair of blue rubber gloves to just to be able to use the remote control. It looks ridiculous, but it's still better than what she ended up with.

Claire sinks into the armchair, thinking.

This is no time for bravery, for bravery sounds very much like foolishness if you spell it without tissue regeneration. But something has gone wrong. And it's certainly not getting any better with the time spent waiting here. So she makes the choice and gets up. Half way to the door, she hears the creak of the couch springs.

"Wait," Elle stops her, determined. "You're going after him?"

Claire pauses, considering – she can't trust her even if her life depended on it, but there's nothing to lose. "Yes."

Ripping off the gloves, the equally powerless blonde grabs her coat, the keys clinking in the pocket.

Finally, some action.

-

Being with her is not among Claire's first choices, it's not even in the middle. Actually, it's pretty much among the last things she'd like to do. But having an ex company sociopath with her is still better than going alone. Fortunately, neither of them tries to make it any worse by starting a conversation and Claire sits, hands clasped around her to avoid coming into contact with her in any way.

"You do know it's against the rules?" Elle pipes up, after fifteen minutes of silent ride.

The subway car rattles lightly.

"I guess."

"We should get a gun." Claire gives her a suspicious look, Elle rolls her eyes, stretching out her long legs, so that the people can't get by. She rebuffs her stare. "For safety."

"I've already got one."

"Good." And that's all for a while. Then her arm starts hurting again.

* * *

Bob was right. There is no virus left. Just some samples of blood, some older research he's partly familiar with. Nothing he didn't expect to find here.

The boss makes a wide gesture, oddly unmoved about the whole thing, "You're free to take what you want. Whatever you find useful."

Suresh looks down at the glass cabinets, doesn't understand the sudden change of attitude. "You want nothing in return?" he mumbles in surprise.

Bob checks his watch again, ignores his question, or maybe he just didn't hear it. "You have fifteen minutes. Then you have to be gone." He sighs, wiping away some of the sweat that glistens on his bare forehead and heads out the lab.

Fifteen minutes turn to an hour and more. Before he notices, it's way past the time limit, so he just carries on, delving through the materials, records on scientific failures and breakthroughs. The building is strangely quiet. Glancing at his watch, he starts stuffing the whole thing in his shoulder bag: files, charts, samples, basically everything. He'll need a–...

-

The door bangs open and there's Sylar, bloody and furious, shoving him against the wall with blunt physical force, making no use of his telekinetic skill.

"I want my powers!" he rasps at Suresh, tightening his grasp at his throat. – "What are you talking about?" the other responds, almond eyes widened in perfect surprise. "You already cured yourself."

"You infected me again," Sylar roars, pulling out the small bottle. Last drops of colorless fluid still glisten in the bottom. He recognizes the handwriting on the label. The inhibitor.

"It's not the Virus," Mohinder swallows, the grip tight against his neck. "It's something else."

"I don't care what it is. Just give me the cure."

"We don't have it yet."

Sylar laughs, then bores his eyes in the geneticist's face. "Wrong answer."

* * *

Bob's office is locked. Bob's office is never locked. Elle stares, puzzled, at the door that won't open. She kicks it, too, just in case. Stupid. Claire is not impressed.

"They're not here." – "I know," Elle snaps, and turns, pointing in the other direction. The lab. Of course, the lab. It all makes sense. It has to. The empty building, the broken security system… Fine, the bloody trail on the second floor is a bit much, but –

"Dad's going to explain it all," Elle reassures herself, ignoring the glares that the younger blond gives her, and keeps on going. The gut feeling is for losers anyway. Or so she thought.

Then the shooting begins. Turning back, they head for the exit, only to find the door blocked. Navigating with remarkable ease, Elle storms to the other exit, it opens and they descend one more floor.

­-

Running through the hallways, Claire trips on something. Floor, knees, shoulder, head… a general ache pierces her body and she struggles to regain her feet. Get up. _Get_ _up_. "Get up," Elle yells at her, as the world goes back to focus. Tugging her elbow, she tries to get them going and Claire half-expects to hear something snap, something that won't heal.

It might be too late, for the door opens with a bang and heavy strides advance to the corner through the glassy doors they were so desperate to run to just a few moments ago.

For a split second, they see Sylar. They stare at each other for a long, panic-stricken while, but Elle is not shooting, she's not even aiming. What is the matter? Attempting to get the pistol to herself, Claire rolls over, locates the gun, but it's too late already – with an awkward limp, the villain has disappeared under the green exit sign. "You let him go!" Breathing out heavily, she turns to Elle, sees her kneeling at something and she realizes what she tripped on.

"Is he–?"

Claire stares at the still lifeless form that she not so long ago wished to see like that. There's a blot of red where the bullet entered, straight through the chest. Dead, apparently.

"Daddy…"

Bob.

* * *

_To be continued…_

- - -

Notes: Sorry it took so long again. The storyline got a bit tangled. It's been half written for ages and I kept correcting it till the point of insanity. Writing the action breaks me.

Next: All the Petrellis are back in NY. And finally the Adam and Claire encounter.

- - -

Thanks for reading and especially for the feedback! It's a great motivation to keep on writing.


	12. Chapter 12: The Last Drop

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. AU.**

The night of Day 8. Claire, Peter, Nathan, Niki, Elle, Sylar and others. Silence after the storm.

.

_You know we can't get back from here_

_We can get away_

Lyrics by Interpol

.

**Chapter 12: The Last Drop  
**

Once you cross the line, there's no coming back. All there's left is accepting and moving on. This time, no one makes a comment. The gurney is loaded, the sheet drawn over the stiff body, and still no condolences, no conclusion whatsoever. Just Elle, gaping like a helpless child over the dead body, trying to grasp what has happened, and failing miserably. The whole world ended without much of a bang. Behind his thick-rimmed glasses the man simply doesn't see, doesn't care anymore, doesn't turn everyday metals into gold.

If there's any chance that Elle is aware of the possibility of bringing him back, it certainly doesn't show. Claire watches her sheer horror, unable to recall seeing anyone so lost in her life. There's not just one piece missing. Without Bob, the whole puzzle collapses, leaving no instructions of how to put it together.

When Nathan questions her, there isn't much she can tell. It all mounts to some flashes of images, a brief stumble and a sharp fall. Everything else is a blur of fear and panic.

"After the shots… Did you see anything, hear anyone other than Sylar?"

Claire chews on her lip. Well… not really. Yet, in that moment, they were so sure of being followed. Nathan looks expectant. She sighs, staring at the bloodstained carpet. "I can't think of anything." No matter how important, the details are lost to her. And Elle has conveniently made her way out.

"It's okay," he assures. "I don't want you to worry about any of it."

Claire nods and lets him guide her away from the disturbing sight, toward the exam room, where Mohinder is already preparing her a healthy dose of antibiotics to grapple the infection.

* * *

I hurt a lot less than she expected. Suresh disposes the cotton swab and smiles like a pediatrician. "You'll be better by morning."

"Can't we just use the cure?" Nathan insists, arms crossed, tone businesslike. They didn't turn Adam in for nothing. Claire sighs and pulls her sweater back on. Knowing Nathan, he's surely going to try and push his point.

"It's complicated," Suresh explains. "You see, her condition is unpredictable, we have no idea how it will react to the treatment. If we must take our chances, I'd say we do it when she's stronger."

"He's right," Peter interjects, looking at Claire, then back at his brother. "We don't want to take any risks."

The attention fixes on back her; she shifts uneasily and shrugs for an answer. "Sure."

-

Niki went through a fast recovery. The cure successfully wiped out the virus, removing the nasty scars and injuries as well. But that was only to be expected.

The other patient, however, proves to be more difficult. Heavily concussed and half-lucid, the Haitian still argues against the treatment. "I don't want his blood. This is not natural way." The rest fades into an incoherent mix of Creole and French. Mohinder shakes his head.

When the man calms down he can finally have a better look at the bruises. It's far from good. "We should take you to hospital."

"No…"

Ignoring his ramblings, Suresh picks up his phone. "_Yes. A heavy fall. No, I don't know how._" He's lying to the doctors, giving fake stories – if this is not the Company rubbing off on him, then what is?

"Sylar…" the sick man mumbles, "he got away." – "Yes, I know. At least he's harmless now, thanks to the inhibitor you stole from us." If had to guess, he'd say it was Bennet.

The Haitian murmurs, before drifting off, "Never. Harmless."

-

A few blocks down, a man is staggering along the alleyway, groping at the walls and trash containers to support himself. The road is wet, riddled with puddles of various shapes and sizes. There's some dampness in the air, like a hint of a storm and he can't tell for sure if it's coming or going. Maybe it's already there.

It seems that Luck, if there ever was such a thing, has finally scratched Sylar out of its plans. Most probably for a reason. He had rushed, laid out his cards just a little too early and this cost him the whole game.

He couldn't have known. But that's a poor excuse and does little to ease the loss.

Sylar stops, hissing through his clenched teeth. The bullet wound in his shin is giving him the hell of a pain, but that's about the least of his problems. Besides being without his powers, he's been suffering a partial hearing loss, memory gaps, and now this terrible cold – the biting, gnawing feeling where his skin meets the air.

Maybe Dr. Suresh was right, maybe he does deserve this kind of torture, his powers turning against him like a delayed retribution from their owners. But fate was never fair to begin with. All of this, even his own downfall, is nothing but a series of events in a formula he had helped to create. This is his consolation. A cold one, but the one he understands.

* * *

It's hopelessly dark as they step out of the Company. Peter holds out one lean arm and the third cab stops dutifully at the pavement. He helps Claire in, then follows her shortly, slumping into the worn leather seat, his knees curled. Even though his vehicle is way past its better days, the cabby flashes them a wide smile – a real one, not the fading excuses stretched on their faces – and asks 'where to?'.

Partly out of the habit, partly of the sleep deprivation, Peter says the address of his old apartment. It takes several minutes to realize his mistake, but then lets it be, having no desire to return to the cold anonymity of their rental space. Claire hasn't noticed. Drowsy from the medications, she lets out a sleepy sigh and nestles underneath his coat, her arms wound close around his waist. It's a sweet gesture, the need for human connection, but he frowns as he feels her shaking ever so slightly. The day has taken its toll on all of them.

Within minutes, her hold relaxes and her breathing grows deeper, stronger. Peter fixes his gaze on the window. The moon feels heavy, weighed down by the late hours and impending dawn. He's tired too, spent to the last drop, but his mind won't shut down.

"Working overtime?" the cabdriver asks, glancing at him and the sleeping blonde in his lap, and their exhausted looks is as good as a 'yes'.

He closes his eyes, remembering all the panic and digging in the frozen time. "You have no idea."

-

Peter puts Claire down and flicks on the lights. The rooms look just as they had left them, days ago. There are boxes on the floor, even the bed is half-made. He thinks of changing the sheets, but remembers the last time he had shared it with Claire. She doesn't seem to mind either, already sitting on the edge of it, looking hesitant for some reason. He then realizes why. All her stuff was left behind.

"Right…" Peter rubs his head, pieces of Primatech Ltd. spilling out of his hair. "You'll find some clothes in the closet. Lie down and rest. I'll come back to check you."

When he returns, refreshed and clean, she's already sound asleep, unconsciously rolled to the other side of the bed, the side he used to sleep on. Her hair is ruffled, wild curls against her cheeks, hiding the blush of the fading fever. He leans down, adjusting the covers and stays with her for a while, long enough to tell she's not in pain in any way. She doesn't wake, just keeps her hands neatly tucked between the pillow and her face, never flinching, not even as he reaches out to tuck one unruly strand behind her ear. Outside, the night stretches on, deep and starless, as she keeps on breathing, softly, rhythmically, in perfect oblivion.

He should probably call Nathan, tell him they're here. But it's unlikely he's going back to the apartment tonight.

* * *

"I thought you gave up drinking." There's a pleasant voice to his right, and apparently, it comes with a tall blonde.

"Just one. The rule of one," Nathan replies, weighing the Scotch in his hand. It's been a hard day and he is dangerously close to breaking this rule. That's when Heidi and kids come to mind. He doesn't drink it, doesn't feel like he's earned it yet.

"Never worked for me," Niki confesses and orders a Martini for herself. Her days of AA are over and she never slipped back, not once after that.

"Then what did?" he asks to keep the conversation going.

"Micah," she says seriously, picking out the olive. After the whole ordeal, she's surprisingly open about it. "When D.L. was put to prison, I was finally faced with it. Single mother. No time to be a mess."

Funny, he just gained time when Heidi left. No one stopping him then. The music changes into something more rhythmic and the bar is noisy with people. Right now, he couldn't care less if anyone recognizes him. He's alive and he's not going to apologize for that.

-

The place is hardly a popular one, one of the reasons he'd spotted it. Nobody cares about who you are or what you're doing as long as you don't cause any trouble and pay the tab. You don't need to socialize, no need to explain your reasons behind your actions. Nathan knew such places through and through, and out of some twisted nostalgia he'd stepped in for drink.

It's Niki, of course, who doesn't fit in the picture. He's not sure that even he does, anymore.

He listens to the song, the gentle tapping of her foot and looks at her. She's been never overconfident like Jessica. Even though it was the latter he had the affair with, it was the hidden vulnerability that won him over in the first place. This and the obvious move with the concert ticket to gain his attention.

He was a man after all, and he had an ego. He still does. It's just easier to deny it now. Easier to let go.

-

"What's going to happen?" she asks, pushing the empty glass across the bar. There's still the question of Bob, hanging like a ghost around their doings.

Nathan stalls, sparing the last drop.

"Everything has already happened. Before you, before me, before any of us could have a say in it." He stops, thinking back. "There was a chance to end this. If they'd told us the truth long ago… things would be different, maybe both of us would be with our families. Whatever happens, they will always choose the secrets before their children – my parents, Nakamura, Linderman, the whole lot of them. If this is something worth dying for then who am I to stop them?"

Niki is quiet for a while, sees his jaw clench and relax as the amber liquid travels down his throat.

"So, this is your way of dealing with it?" he hears her ask, unsure whether she's talking about the liquor or his admission.

"No," he pauses, eyes fixed on the empty glass. "This is my way of not dealing with it."

* * *

She finds him in the back street, a few blocks down, lying between the heaps old newspapers and cardboard boxes: a super-villain indeed. Elle sighs, frustrated. After all the whole trouble she went through for this, she didn't expect to feel so... disappointed. The whole ordeal is nothing like the final count down she always imagined it to be. Both of them crippled, hands tied, nothing special at all.

It may be a bit low, pathetic even, but that's the only thing she has left. For what it's worth, she's going to laugh in his face. Make him regret he ever dared to cross her path. Yes, that's how it is going to be.

"Hey, you," she shouts, pulling out the 9 mm.

The sleeper stirs at the sound of her sharp voice. Some more rustle, a head pokes out. Waking up, he looks mildly surprised to see the pretty blonde, the very same who fried him just weeks ago. The Company has finally caught up with him.

-

"This is for you, Daddy."

Sylar blinks, confused, and smiles wackily. He's killed too many to remember them all, but no one befitting that label. "Who exactly are we talking about?"

"Bob Bishop," Elle says evenly. "The man you killed today."

Somewhere in his head a chorus of bells starts ringing. The Company man. The big guy. He casts her a knowing look. "I didn't kill him. He was already dead. I'm not the one you want."

Elle laughs, sharp and cruel, and the rain picks up again. Her long hair gets drenched from the rain, sticking to her face, making her look wild and heedless. "Don't care."

Her finger twitches on the trigger, anticipating the release.

"You want revenge?" Sylar smirks, staring straight into the barrel, still provocative amidst the garbage, rotten food and cockroaches. "I'll give you revenge."

A flock of birds is scared to flight. The gun drops, smoking.

* * *

_To be continued…_

- - -

Notes: Sorry again for the overly long hiatus. I had some problems with writing and not enough time to make up for it. Hopefully that's all past now and the story can continue with full pace.

Sylar and Elle action coming up soon, plus some answers to what is really going on in the Company. Stay tuned.

- - -

Thanks for reading. Reviews are much appreciated :)


	13. Chapter 13: The Days After

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. AU.**

Day 9. Claire, Peter, Nathan, Adam, Elle… everyone basically. One step closer to the truth.

_._

_Baby won't you try to find me_

_Maybe it will be alright_

Lyrics by Interpol

.

**Chapter 13: The Days After**

The dawn cracks through the blinds like a breath of fresh air. Claire looks drowsily around the room – something feels definitely different, a wisp of hope in the constant gloom. Thinking back, it's probably the first proper day of sunshine since well… ever since the whole funeral sham.

She finds Peter sitting at the opened window, busy rummaging trough his old medical stuff. It must be early still, something chilly is biting her toes and Claire tugs the blanket tighter around her, the blue striped sheet coiling around her bare shins. He looks up from the boxes with a smile and hands her a thermometer. Laughing at this unusual greeting, voice rasp from sleep, she props down on his lap for the lack of another chair.

"You look better," he observes, smoothing her forehead, her cheeks. No signs of fever. Claire smiles lazily, stretching across the armrest. – "I _am_ better."

It feels nice – the warmth of the sun on her hair, the slow burn on her skin she's so used to. She's almost asleep on his shoulder when the small gadget finally starts beeping with. '98', he notes approvingly. They both know what they have to do, but it's hard to move from here.

Another minute in the sun, her hair feels like on fire. "We should get going."

"Do we have to?" she mumbles sadly. – "I'm afraid so."

* * *

"That doesn't make any sense," Parkman mutters and throws the crinkled boarding pass into a nearby trash can. "Who would want to sabotage the Company?"

"I don't know. But why bother covering it up? It had to be someone from the inside," Nathan pauses, thinking. "Did Bennet have any information?" – "No. Nothing."

The Petrelli shrugs – it was a long shot anyway. Whatever this organization was, they were too careful to leave any clues.

The two men exit the terminal building in the hopeless pursuit of catching a cab. Nathan pulls out his glasses. Mostly for the sun, but there's always a bigger chance of being noticed in crowded places.

It's already hot outside, in the blazing sun. He shrugs uncomfortably, tugging at his jacket. And this is only morning.

-

"I can run it through the police database, if you think it'll help," Matt offers, finally seated in yellow vehicle. "But I need a name. A location. Anything."

"That's all I've got," Nathan answers, handing him the file. "There's just one logo. A black square with some lines on it. Can't make anything out of it."

Parkman takes the document, studying it closely before returning to the said square. "You know what, it looks like a stylized bird, with wings spread out," he points at his discovery, tilting the sheet to the right, so that the bird is flying straight. Nathan takes the paper, looking at it with the newfound perspective.

"I think you're right."

* * *

The room she enters is brilliantly white and smells lof hospitals. Clearly used for some research purpose. Peter gestures her to go to the other chair, while he prepares the equipment. The notorious villain sits calmly, the sleeve rolled up high, arm resting on the table, and to her surprise, there are no constraints holding him still. Come to think of it, you probably don't even need any shackles with Peter around.

The man observes her for a moment, mouth curling into a curious grin.

"Hi, you must be Claire. I'm Adam." Blue-eyed and fair-haired, he looks pretty ordinary on the surface. And special, just like her.

She doesn't respond to that. There's nothing to say. She's not here to make small talk with a 400 year old murderer. But even as she ignores his presence, his gaze traces her every movement, the scrutiny making her nervous, bare, glass-like. It's as if he sees inside her and right through. There's always something uncomfortable knowing your future.

Claire lets the hair drop, fixing her eyes in her lap.

"Brilliant," the guy mumbles, reminiscent, and the grin spreads even wider.

-

Eventually Peter returns to the table, ready to make the transfusion. They don't know how much it takes to overrule her immune system, so they will have to guess. Suddenly, she stops, an anxious thought traversing her mind. "How can we trust him? What if it's another trap?"

Peter blinks, realizing the possibility. There's surely the chance. "Relax, you guys – I'm immune to everything by now." Adam looks at her, meeting her eyes, "As will be Claire."

A beat misses. And he's in her head, he must be, because he smiles pitifully. "You do realize, darling, that this is your last chance to get out. No more backdoor exits. You do this and you won't be able to have any of the things a normal life would bring you."

She listens with quiet realization, and it must be that obvious since Peter is clearly alarmed.

"Why are you doing this? For yourself or for him?" Adam whispers, nodding at the direction of Peter, and something flashes between the two guys.

"Stop messing with her thoughts!"

Claire inhales, for this only convinced her more, "It's okay, I've made my decision." And it's hers.

So, she stretches out her arm, the wounds visible with the bandaid removed, and sets it on the surface, not far from where Adam's was, ready to accept eternity, whatever it means.

-

Despite her earlier confidence, the needle looks menacing as it plunges into her skin, her tightening veins, with the force of an inevitabilty. Somewhere at the back of her mind, Claire realizes that she was still expecting something to stop them, dart in, break down the door, jolt the needle and postpone the transmission. Sylar, Elle, the Company… Anyone.

But the blood flows, dark crimson, like cherry and strawberry slur in a straw, back in that ice-cream bar in Odessa she's almost forgotten about. Gradually, the wounds start healing, and her skin, which looked grayish before, acquires a fresh pinkish glow under the golden tan. She gasps, both out of the amazement and the tingling sensation that fills her limbs. It is all around her body where her blood is circulating, fighting the aggressive antibodies, restoring her to a new life.

It is adrenaline, dopamine, all her body chemistry and hormones and she tenses suddenly as the feeling similar to euphoria courses through her limbs. She's back. Reborn. Pumping his arm into a fist and back, Adam's still looking at her. And grinning. Why the hell is he grinning?

"I actually thought for a moment you wouldn't go through with it," he offers, amused.

She wants to slap him, for everything he put her through, but then remembers that there's nothing she could do to hurt him.

* * *

"How much did they tell you about the Company?" Adam asks, taking the stairs down. A door opens. "About it's mission?"

Peter shrugs, doesn't want to answer. Everything the man does is for some personal gain. He's not going to make the same mistake twice.

"I suppose they never told you about the others, either?" Peter still doesn't listen. "About the ones who left?"

The curiosity wins. "Bits and pieces."

"Well, if I may, I'd like to give you a clue." – "I don't want your clues."

"How can you fix everything, if you don't know what's wrong?" That's enough. Peter stops, slamming the other guy against the wall without touching him.

"Why are you helping me? What's your agenda?"

Adam smiles, untouched by anything. "The same as yours. To save the world."

This sounds too absurd and Peter has to break into his thoughts to confirm he really believes that.

-

In the hallway, his name is shouted, the diminutive only Nathan uses now. "Pete," he repeats as the villain slumps back on the floor. "It's okay, Niki can take it from here."

Stronger than any handcuffs, the woman escorts Adam back to his cell. For another lifetime, hopefully.

"You still don't trust me, with him?" Peter asks, when both have dissappeared from the sight.

Nathan shakes his head, patting his back in a half-hug. Just like in the old times. "No. I just don't think it's healthy… for you, to be around him." He stops, looking his little brother in the eye. "Let it go, Pete. It's over."

"Yeah," he turns without looking.

-

"I contacted Noah Bennet," Nathan starts when they approach the exit, "he'll be back tomorrow night the latest. You should tell Claire, help her with the packing."

"So, that's it?" Peter stares at him, incredulous. "You're letting her go, again?"

"Think about it, Peter. What kind of home can I give her? I'm legally dead. There's no future for her here, no proper family, no protection, nothing. If she wants to leave, I'm not in the position to stop her. "

Peter isn't nearly as convinced. "You're not even giving her any choice." His voice softens, "Don't give up on yourself. You're still her _father_, Nathan."

A heavy sigh and a muttered remark hits the ground. "Frankly, I don't know who I am."

* * *

Elle returns around midday. Haggard and pouting, she doesn't tell where she's been. Then she lays the gun on the table, Company logo glinting in the sun.

Suresh takes the gun, sees just one bullet missing. "Where's Sylar? Did you find him?"

"He's dead."

Mohinder looks at her quietly and leaves questions for later.

Probably because of the situation, the loss fresh around her, everyone treads extra carefully around Elle. Not just Mohinder – being kind comes natural to him – but others as well. Even the Petrellis passed her by with something other than hostility. Pity she doesn't care anymore. Suresh goes on, pulling out a syringe and a yellowish liquid, explaining, "We got the treatment, last night, when you were gone."

She sits and suffers the needleprick, the cotton swab, the inspection of the older, bullet wound. Everything heals. Sizzles start sparkling in her fist and for a moment there's a menacing grin on her face. Suresh, still with his back to her, is busy locking up the refrigerator.

"Elle, there's something I need to…" He stops, turning around. "Elle?"

There's no one else in the room.

-

Back home, she tries out every sizzle, frizzle, bolt, spark, and current till she's fully convinced she hasn't lost anything to the unhappy incident. She's back. Finally, she's herself again.

"I like your powers," he comments, biting into his sandwich. Elle frowns. There are different layers of lewd underneath and none of them are nice. She's read Sylar's files over and over again, in hope of catching him one day, but this is too far from theory.

Cockily, she lifts her eyebrow and aims at the fire alarm. A rain of plaster and peeling paint ensues. "Well, you'd better watch closely. Cause you're never gonna have them."

Sylar laughs then, crumbs spilling on the couch, and stops only as she steals his soda. With the rattle of handcuffs, he sits back, not nearly as pissed as she hoped, knowing well that he can easily coax it out of her with some more praising.

In the end, she's still a little girl, yearning to be recognized for her achievements.

"How's the plan working so far?" he changes the subject, throat drying already.

"Relax," she says, finishes the drink and crinkles it under his stare. "I know what I'm doing."

* * *

_To be continued…_

- - -

Notes: Finally a chapter I'm remotely pleased about. Many parts of it were written long time ago, I was just waiting to get this far.

So, the story is slowly closing up, explanations coming soon. There will probably be something between 15-20 chapters in total. Hope to post them soon after I return from my trip (Berlin, yay!).

- - -

Thanks for reading. Comments are love :)


	14. Chapter 14: Familiarity

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. AU.**

Day 10. One step backward, two steps forward.

.

_The pretence is not what restricts me_

_It's the circles inside_

Lyrics by Interpol

.

**Chapter 14: Familiarity**

For the past couple of days, he's been living like a shadow. Half lucid, half crippled – he really feels as dead as she told he was. Breathing softly on the faded mattress, Sylar listens to the high-frequency drone known as silence. He looks at the cracks in the ceiling, smells the mold in the walls, and closes his eyes, swallowing. If he concentrates enough, he can shut it all out, the pain, the deafness, the weight in his limbs, but only at the cost of being the lowest of all. An ordinary man. And he could never be that.

So he opens his eyes, the pain returning, slowly, as does the wish to live, to fight. On times like these, he can't find the reason he ended up like this. With all the logic of the fight for survival, it should be Peter Petrelli – not him ­– lying here, crawling through the lowest pits of hell.

The keys drop and the door slams shut. The tattered couch slumps under Elle's tiny frame. She's returned, with her strange pills and clever smile, neither ever boding well. He lifts his head a few inches and observes her enthusiasm, unable to match it. It's not the cure she promised, but it does the trick, buys him a few hours to make him function again.

She calls them the Haitian pills. He swallows the irony and the pills, closes his eyes, waiting his reversed powers to fade, take the delusions and pain with it. Just the low hum in his ear. She leans closer to make sure he hears her – sounds have been growing distant lately –, and puts the thoughts in his head.

_One more day and you'll get it. And then we'll get them._ The clock starts ticking, and he realizes it was there all along. He just couldn't hear it.

"Better now?" Elle chirps, snuggled comfortably at his side, too close to be comfortable – that human stun-gun. Sylar opens his eyes to see her grin, playing with his hair, as if he were a drugged out tiger. She was never allowed any pets, she says.

A faintest laugh curls on his lips, dying away in his chest. The girl has no clue about wild animals.

* * *

In another part of the city, time flows its own course. The building is quiet per usual, and their little gathering in the hallway almost seems to congest the floor.

Nathan stands in the middle, hands in the pockets of a gray suit she doesn't remember stealing from his wardrobe, shirt is open a few buttons, and despite the comparative scruffiness, still looking like he owns the world. Claire shakes this image off, remembering the painting in his office and what could have happened.

Crossing his arms in unease, Mohinder spares a long glance through the closed doors, as if something could step up and blame him. But the body lies still, wrapped in the white sheet, just a single gold ring glinting in the left hand, stiff and unmoving. Elle is still missing.

They've waited too long already.

-

"Can't we just do it?" Claire breathes, a cloud of mist condensing on the glass. "It's not like she wouldn't want this…"

"I don't think it's our decision to make," Nathan insists, avoiding looking at them. Claire leans closer to the window.

"If we put it off much longer, it will be." Mohinder gestures, voice troubled, "We don't know the limits of this, there's no research, just guesses… "

"All this time," Peter interjects, "they had Adam right here, the material, all the blood in they needed. Deveaux, our father, every member who died, even you, Nathan – nobody was saved. They obviously didn't want to use it."

"You think there are complications?" Suresh muses. A silence spreads, icier than the morgue. Claire turns from the window, apprehension gnawing away at her guts. Did she and Peter make a mistake?

Nathan stares right back to hide his discomfort. "I'm feeling fine, thanks."

A shake of head as Peter clarifies, "No, I was saying – what if there was a reason for this?"

* * *

Two days of sorting the Company archives, or what was left of it, and they only begin to realize the sheer extent of their records. Not hundreds, but thousands of specials, all carefully studied, assessed and put away. From the age of manifestation to visits to dentist, favourite TV programs and restaurants they ordered the take-out – anything that might be useful one day. Most of it isn't. The records that do matter are missing mysteriously, hidden or destroyed like those in Odessa. The only ones still intact are stored at Linderman's offices, at maximum security, even after his death.

Refusing to waste any more hours on this fruitless search, Peter backs down, gazing at the towering rows of information. Hopeless doesn't even begin to describe their situation.

Nathan has apparently given up long ago, sitting at the table with the _Bishop, Elle_ file he found stashed between the two heavy shelves. Peter thinks, picking up the photograph of a much younger girl, pretty and blonde, a stuffed animal in her grip. There has to be something they're missing.

"I could find her," Peter suggests. "Maybe she can tell us something." – Nathan keeps reading. "She wouldn't. Besides, it's unlikely Bob shared his secrets any more than our parents."

The empathy nods, besides, he's spooked her enough already.

­–

"Strange," Peter huffs, remembering their last little incident. – "What?" Nathan asks, half-listening.

"Did Elle know you were alive when she saw you, the day before?"

"I don't think so. Even Suresh was genuinely shocked."

"She didn't look surprised at all," Peter muses.

Nathan turns the page, the tests begin. _Accidents with water, limits found._ "The girl was still in a shock. I'm sure she wasn't even capable of showing a proper reaction."

Peter shakes his head, ardent to prove his point. "No, it was like she already knew. If anything, she was nervous about seeing me."

Finally, Nathan stops, looking up from the material. "I guess Bob already found out and told her."

"Or someone else did."

-

Back at his hotel, a shock penetrates Nathan's chest as a male voice across the street calls him by his name. With apprehension, he turns to face the stout man trotting at his direction.

"Hey, I've been looking all over for you." – Nathan slumps visibly. Paranoia is a close firend these days. "Parkman."

The streets are busy and they head for the nearest little café. Seated in the back corner, Matt begins with his revelations. "I found something concerning the file, the black bird logo."

Nathan sips at his coffee. "So you know what it is?"

"No," Parkman shakes his head, "but there appears to have been some sort of an investigation, several decades ago. Most of the paperwork was destroyed in a fire, but this part of the file was stored elsewhere." He pulls out a pile of carbon copies, probably risking his job by bringing them here. "This logo has been spotted before, and you're never gonna believe it – this thing here predates the Company."

"1961…" Nathan mumbles, skimming the faded dates. "It predates even us."

-

The script is old, barely readable, parts of some old paperwork, but Parkman is convinced to have made quite a discovery. "Whatever this was about, it included lots of shady deals, money transfers, unsolved deaths… Once the police got involved, the evidence mysteriously disappeared. Any guesses who the suspects were?"

He already suspects the worst. "Tell me." – "David Linderman, Adam Monroe, your parents, for instance, some more shady figures I haven't been able to identify. After the evidence was lost, the investigation reached a standstill and all charges were dropped. Hopeless case, really."

Nathan studies the file for a while, then looks up, deciding. "You think it's possible they're still active?"

Matt shrugs. "There hasn't been any sign of them for years. Why now?"

"Many things changed after Linderman's death, power shifted when Bishop took over. Something might have got out of his hands. Something that Linderman was able to contain."

"It's possible. But without any proof it's just a speculation. You don't know for sure."

That's true, of course. Nathan traces the rim of the cup, eyes fixed on the ring, sighs like it's taking some mental effort to say this, "There's someone who does."

* * *

In this cheap rental place, the crumbling walls offer no shelter from the reality. The truth is just as bitter as unnegotiable.

Daddy is gone. She's still here. Alone, for the rest of her life.

The way Elle was raised, not that she can remember much of it, added a great deal to her survival instincts. Given her dependency, it's hard to believe, but underneath it all there's an almost manic wish to live, to succeed, matched by the fear of failing to do so. It's behind everything she is and does, the reckless behavior, the lack of judgment and complete disregard for the consequences. How this became entangled with the need for appraisal is another matter entirely.

Sylar has some theories. Some insight as well. In the end, they're both on the same way down, swimming against the drain. She has to keep moving, pursue her stupid revenge, have a purpose, be a part of something other than nothing. He knows that need. The need of rush, something to distract yourself with. Without it, there's just… _this_.

Eventually, the truth is bound to catch up with her. Maybe she's stalling for a reason. For when it's all done, she'll really have nothing left. Just the psychopath she's holding captive.

Or is it the other way around?

-

"I lost my mother, too," Sylar tries, when the heaviness turns suffocating.

"No you didn't." Hurt makes her cruel. "You killed her."

It was an accident. But does it matter? He's too tired to go through the trouble of self-justification for a person who doesn't care anyway.

"Is that what you believe?" – "That's what my Dad told me. He never lied."

"Have _I_ ever lied to you?"

Elle sits up, the clank of the boots on the old warehouse floor. A small finger traces his lower lip.

"Let's hope not."

* * *

Mohinder is working late, as always. It's a trait her mother always ascribed to his father. She would say there can only be one love in your life. She was sharing hers with his work. Mohinder swipes his eyes, vision blurring already, and looks back through the microscope. There were days he wished he could consult his father, discuss the theories he had struggled to understand, find answers to the questions that were keeping him in his lab in the late hours. Maybe he'd have the answers by now.

Claire's eyes follow him across the room. He takes some samples, runs some tests, analyses them, runs some more tests. She was curious at first, and he didn't mind explaining the process, but after several hours even he gets tired. So does she. Claire stifles another yawn, rests her head on the counter, looking the man through the glass tubes and beakers.

The clock ticks 23:47. She could have left long ago, or waited somewhere else. But the lab is still better than wandering the empty corridors – with the dead bodies in the basement, the place is worse than an old mansion. Instead, she remains here, actually getting along with Mohinder better than she'd be willing to admit.

-

When the geneticist turns around, she asks _the_ _question_. Maybe she shouldn't have, but it emerged like a bubble, kept under the lid for way too long.

"Why did you shoot my Dad?"

"I'm sorry?" the Indian stutters momentarily, clearly taken aback. Claire meets his eyes, but there's no anger anymore, just some prodding around the wound.

"I mean," she explains, seeing the answer is not coming, "it was either him or Bob. How could you decide something like that?"

Mohinder looks down, then up again. There's no way out of this situation. He tells her the truth. "I didn't… decide anything. You don't have the time to think. You either save the person or not. That's all. I'm sorry if the answer disappoints you."

* * *

Peter's hand on her back is tentative and unsure as they pass through the front door. He seems distracted somehow, in his own world, and Claire expects another cab-night. Or subway, who knows. That's why it surprises her to have him pulling the hood over her head, zipping up her sweater as if she could actually get cold, and smiles coyly. She laughs, suddenly realizing…

The stars are blinking in the chilly air, and despite the nearing summer, the sky still keeps to the shade of dark blue. It's been a while since he flew her home, making this time the more special. She finds a way around his jacket, the awkward fumbling now replaced by skill, locking his hands around him in the anticipation of the jolt that would lift them from the ground.

She remembers the first time, the very first one with West, she remembers the feeling, the feeling of weightlessness and excitement bubbling in her stomach. With Peter, it's different. It's a much closer, more intimate experience, one that means much more than just the fun of it. When they're in the air, it's as if they're part of another world. A perfect escape, until they land, too soon - always too soon. Their feet touch the concrete. Without realizing, her hands still cling to his jacket, afraid to let go.

He disengages from her on the rooftop, but doesn't move or step away. From what it looks like, he's just enjoying the view, but there's something else, something he needs to tell her.

-

Thousands of ideas pass through her mind, terrifying and silly ones, fast enough for him not to read them, but none of them prepares her for the reality.

"Your father…" he's quick to specify, "Noah, he called last night. He's coming to take you home."

Claire looks down, tries to breathe. She should be happy, right? "When do I have to go?" she asks, voice devoid of emotions.

Peter lets out a sigh, shakes his head against the wind. "You don't have to go anywhere."

"But Nathan," Claire rasps, bitterness emerging, "he doesn't even want me here." _He never did._

"Yes, he does," Peter assures offhandedly, gazing at the cityscape. "He's just too scared."

Claire looks puzzled, Nathan and _scared_ don't really go together her mind. She frowns, brushing strands of hair away from her face. "Scared of what?"

He looks down, 15 stories to the ground, where his brother once waited.

"Scared of failing."

* * *

_To be continued…_

_- - -_

Notes: I apologize for the obscenely long pause. There were some difficulties to overcome, but here it is eventually, and slightly longer as well.

Plot details: I'd really like to see some Sylar/Elle dynamics played out on screen, I'm sure that Zachary Quinto and Kristen Bell would do marvelous scenes together, cute and twisted of sorts, if they would only let them.

Sylar's condition. He's a bit different, you see. There's no telling how many involuntary abilities (aside from super-hearing and Charlie's super memory) he has absorbed, but if you heap them together, it should be quite enough to render him disabled. (Plus the bullet wound in his leg.) As explained, the condition only affects the special genes and their functions, but he also has a certain control over them, since, unlike Claire, he can choose to use them or not. At least he's trying to.

Coming next: Revelations… Lots of answers coming.

- - -

Thanks for reading. Comment if you're following :)


	15. Chapter 15: Revelations

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. AU.**

Day 11. Conspiracy revealed. Mostly Angela Petrelli centric. _It needed to be done._

.

_There's nothing like this built today_

_You'll never see a finer ship in your life_

Lyrics by Interpol

.

**Chapter 15: Revelations**

The glass doors open and there's Angela Petrelli with her usual grace, still dressed in mourning black but the string of white pearls. "You're just on time." She looks at them, acknowledging each presence on her doorstep: Claire, Peter, her "deceased" son, and Parkman. The latter feels duly uncomfortable to stand here after their last encounter, but the lady of the house makes no remark and steps aside, leading them in.

In the sitting room, the tea is served – five porcelain cups, and she pours the steaming brew herself. Claire wonders about the impeccable timing, but that's how it's always been with her. Everything is foreboded and prepared for. Even the sudden reappearance of her dead son.

As the lost and found members of the family have a seat, Parkman alone remains standing at the mantelpiece, admiring the photographs with growing curiosity. Nathan looks uncomfortable – without changing a thing, everything seems different. The mansion feels bigger now, instead of feeling like home.

It's going to be a breaking point, but the air remains cool. He's always hated the drama. "You know why we're here?" Nathan begins, setting the cup on the table.

The hostess smiles, pleasant, though unusually strained. "You've come to take my last secret."

Peter groans inwardly, sensing the trouble she's putting herself through. "Mom, it doesn't have to be like this. Just stop hiding, whatever it is."

"Yes it does, Peter."

* * *

Back in the company, the morning is growing closer to the day. Mohinder sighs, rubbing the sunken circles around his eyes as he drops the glasses. After the night's work, all he has gained from the endless battery of tests is some red dots dancing before his eyes.

He's been steady and unrelenting on his course to nowhere. He thinks he's arrived.

The geneticist weighs a vial of Claire's blood, the last drop of her generous donation. It agitates him to think that the answer is locked inside it, right here in his hands, but still he can't reach it. No microscope is powerful enough to show the truth if you're not ready to accept it.

Suresh rises at last, gathers the scattered papers into a decent pile, then dumps them unceremoniously into the trash bin. The only thing remaining is the vial. And now he sees it. Blame it on the sleep deprivation, his over-the-top humanitarianism, but this is the only logical choice. He's done with waiting for directions.

With renewed resolve, the Indian greatest mind pushes through the doors, each one bringing him closer to his aim It's dangerous, deciding such things alone. Their trust in him will be shattered, once more, maybe for good this time. Perhaps he'll regret it.

Perhaps it's wrong to do this, but the doing nothing is worse.

-

Soon after the white of Mohinder's lab coat has disappeared, another pair of steps approaches. Or rather, one and a half. There's one hasty, one slow and certainly limping stride. The door is unlocked. Elle pops her head in, bangs shaking as she glances around, then nods at her companion.

In the safety of the lab, Sylar slumps on the chair, forehead glistening with beads of sweat. The leg pulses with newfound pain, sending waves of shock up his muscles. Despite the pain, an expectant grin is already pulling the edges of his stubble. _Soon_ has become _now_.

Elle quickly bustles through the fridge, spilling the samples and vials, the glass clinking sharply. "_Shit_." Sylar looks up. "It's not here." Elle turns, slowly and angrily. "He took it."

Sylar wants to laugh, he wants to scream, and a part of him does, through the heavy breathing. He should have known. Never leave anything to chance.

In the desperate attempt to find him, Elle logs on the surveillance network. Suresh has to be in the building… Ground floor, first floor, second floor… This place is basically dead. But at the cameras of the prison ward she knows is anyway, something manages to catch her attention.

Elle leans into the screen and laughs disbelievingly. Just like in the good old days, Adam paces from one corner of the cell to another, till his blue eyes stare absently into the lens. "_Bingo_."

* * *

The tea has cooled, as have emotions. Some listlessness has taken over the room.

"We were young, idealistic," Angela smiles, bittersweet about her past. "Just like you. And just like you, we thought we could save the world." She breathes, as if preparing herself for something hard, yet inevitable.

"We already heard that part Ma," Nathan grumbles, "everything was great, before you all turned evil. Were you involved in this from the start?" – "At first not. But when I realized what I could do, what I could see… I looked for others like me." She fixes her gaze at Claire. "I wanted to be safe, to belong somewhere. And then I met your father."

"So it was him who started it? Was it Arthur Petrelli?" Parkman speaks up, his powers giving him and advantage in the conversation.

"No one gets the credit for starting it. Adam, Linderman, Arthur – they were all disciples to someone else."

There are no clear answers, but in her own way, she's doing the best she can.

-

"At first, we had no idea where to start. We wanted to help, to cure illnesses, cure death… Can you imagine?" Claire looks at her crooked smile and honestly can't imagine the 'young Angela' she's referring to. The gaze stays on her, as her grandmother continues, as if she's helping her to remember, somehow. "It started small, one by one, we tried to save everyone. Then, we realized we had to make the choice of _not_ saving some people, people who didn't deserve life."

"Who are you to decide who lives and who dies?" Claire grumbles, surprising herself and others with her outburst. She just couldn't help it – it's too much like the night of the explosion. Nathan stays quiet for a reason, concentrating on something on the carpet.

Mrs. Petrelli stops, smiling sympathetically at her granddaughter, "I don't expect you to understand it yet." Said girl only heaves with frustration. "As I said, we started choosing. We had to be sure they wouldn't commit crimes, kill people after we had saved them. Sometimes we didn't decide to revive them until later, after we had made the necessary precautions. Adam's powers seemed limitless."

"Are they?" Parkman asks. – "No."

* * *

The morgue is cold and Mohinder works fast, his warm fingers preparing the dose with natural skill. It's been days since… since they found him dead and claiming that he doesn't have any doubts is as far from the truth as it gets. He's done it before. But never before was the body so cold, so clammy, so… dead.

He swallows, feeling something bad creeping up his throat. Lights flicker for a moment. The refrigerators whir quietly.

No. He's doing it. And if it doesn't work, at least he gets the credit for trying. The needle plunges in the chest, closest to the heart, to stimulate the blood flow. Seconds pass as he waits for it to take effect.

It doesn't. So he prepares another one. And another.

He doesn't care about the credit.

-

The door opens, and like the enlightened prisoner he used to be, Adam is seated at the table, busy writing something. She taps the wall. He lifts his eyes, momentarily caught back.

"Elle?" Adam reclines in his chair, voice amused. It's been long. The last time she nearly grilled him to death. But wounds heal, eventually.

"Hey darling," she says with a sardonic grin and lets the door swing wide open. His eyes travel over her small frame, then to the empty corridor. Something's up, he can feel it, but doesn't know yet.

"Missed me much?" Adam tests the ground. Elle's jaw tightens, remembering the pandemonium set loose by their escape. Dad had been devastated. After all, the prisoners were her responsibility, her greatest failure.

"Sure."

There's a loud sizzle and the next moment he's on the floor, pieces of his chair smoking. The burns on his skin are already healing. "Interesting," Sylar drawls, voice low with anticipation.

* * *

"By the time we realized what we had started, it had already got out of our hands."

"Is that when the police caught up with you?" Matt guesses.

Angela just nods, distraught. "We were careless, we lacked the experience in matters like that. It was just a matter of time before this happened…" Peter rubs the bridge of his nose, unable to believe he was hearing his mother talk about hiding murders with the same tone she would use talking about redecorating the room. There's no end to it. Everything is worse than what they expected. Countless accidents, disguised murders. The cold calculation with which they played this game of life and death. He's feeling sick.

"Let me guess," Parkman interjects again, agitated. "You dropped the black bird signature and moved on, under the disguise of the Paper Company. Did you learn anything at all? All this death and you just kept going on? Doing this to your_ own _kind."

For the first time in the whole morning, the matron loses her temper, eyes lit like glowing embers. "Listen to me, boy. Blackbird was a mistake. It was a project that never meant to get this far. Something we started in goodwill. The same wish I see in your eyes now. And you're not so very different as you think." That's the second reference to Maury. She stops before she goes too far.

Calmed, Angela regains her earlier composure. "We did the best we could to destroy the evidence, hide everything that could lead to repeating it. We made an oath, to keep it secret. Even from our children, and _especially_ from you."

She sighs, looking away. "I never dreamt I'd be the only one left."

-

"If that was a mistake, why found the Company?" Matt finds the group photo, hidden behind the happy family shots.

"We needed to contain the fear we had helped to unleash. You think that Sylar is bad? Imagine facing more of those like him, alone, with nothing to back you. The only mistake we made was involving Adam, and this I don't deny. We believed in him at first, him being the oldest, the wisest of us. He promised us salvation and we needed him. It took years of research and nearly destroying the world to realize how wrong we were."

"You locked him up," Peter mutters. "That's thirty years ago."

"Thirty two," his mother corrects. "But there were some of us didn't agree with this decision, and there was… a dissent in the group."

She reveals the core of the Company politics, the gradual change in its management, their family stepping out of it, but never escaping the hold that Linderman had over them. In a way, his tyranny bought the peace. Through desperate measures, the rebels were contained. Adam was locked away and the enemies were quiet. Probably because there were no enemies left. Those who had escaped the elimination didn't dare to attempt anything. Any suspicious activity could reveal their identity.

Peter swallows as Claude comes to mind, his guilt turning giving way to a headache. Claire clutches the cushion, doesn't try to say anything. Nathan looks tired, angry, and something much darker.

"We were getting older, our generation had failed, tied to our deeds in the past. You," she breathes, "you knew nothing about this. And I hoped… I wished that somehow, this won't happen again."

* * *

By midday, Noah Bennet is close to looking for a job that doesn't involve so much traveling. The airport official seems to have developed a sixth sense for suspicious characters, thus spending hours of his precious time studying his passport.

Against all hopes, he finally arrives at the Comapany. He tips the driver, heads up the stairs, swipes the card. No beep. He does it again. The screen remains lifeless. Some sense of foreboding starts gnawing at him as the doors are easily pushed open. No alarm, no security. Insitnctively reaching for his gun, advances to the surveillance room. The doors are open, the guards dead, and Elle's handwriting is as clear as day.

Despite the slim odds, he still checks the bodies for pulse. He never has had any good hunches. The cameras are still functioning, and he scans them all to find the intuder. He sees Elle, on the second floor, with an odd choice for companion. _Sylar._ Fears he had been trying to bury now take over his mind. He has to warn Claire.

Ready to make his escape, another camera captures his attention. Unaware of the eyes watching him, there's Suresh on the ground floor, wondering about the mess in his lab. He looks worried, but not worried enough.

The phone rings somewhere under the pile of papers. Pushing the charts aside, Mohinder picks it up. "Hello?"

"Mohinder?" Bennet's voice rasps in the receiver, "You have to leave the building, right now. Do you understand? No delay."

* * *

"The moment I heard you were shot," Angela says, some hopelessness coloring her voice, a tiny tremble behind by the firm line of her mouth. "I knew it would start again. They would try to revive you and expose Claire, what she's able to do."

"What about Bob?" Nathan asks. "_He_ tried to change."

"Bob was a fool," his mother scoffs, sitting straight, hands tied in her lap. "He thought he could reverse everything, go back to doing '_the right thing_', now that Linderman was gone. But he didn't have the strength to be a leader. Things kept slipping out of his control. It grew over his hands, especially after Adam was set loose. Yes, Peter. You were easily tricked, just like the rest of us. He never did change any of his tactics… He acted fast, and in short time gathered many of his old followers and new ones, ready to make his charge at the Company."

"The killings," Matt concludes.

"It was more than that. After avenging those who betrayed him, he would bring down the everything else. You destroyed most of the Virus, but he would get his hands on it, and sooner or later develop another deadly strain…"

Peter realizes, "Is that what happened to Claire?" – "She was the only flaw in their plan. Planting the virus was easier than eliminating her. But it works only once, as we know of Adam."

"I don't understand," Nathan starts, "if he was such a threat, why keep him alive? You knew he could escape eventually. You knew he was a threat. Why take the chance?"

"As I said, we mortgaged our souls for our children. He," she pauses, "was our insurance. In case anything went wrong, the virus or its strains, we would have the cure. He was our last chance. Not to be used unless it was dire necessity."

"But he escaped."

"And we involved Claire," Peter says, looking at his niece, who's quietly biting her lips.

"I tried to protect you," Angela continues. "I did everything to keep my family safe. Yes, I hoped you'd become the President, the leader of the free world. This would've­ given us a chance to–"

"Don't–" Peter raises his hand. "Just don't …"

-

"So, it was Adam behind this all along?" Nathan repeats, standing at the window, with arms crossed. "The killings, the attacks on the headquarters, even the Virus?"

"He and his followers," his mother confirms. "Listen, Nathan, this is your chance to put an end to this."

"It's already done," Matt reassures. "We caught him, in Odessa. He's safely locked away in his cell, just as we speak."

"No, he's not."

Everyone looks at Peter, shaking his head as he snaps his eyes open. In all the building, the whole city, he can't find Adam's presence. And neither could Molly.

"Not anymore."

* * *

_To be continued…_

- - -

Notes: Sorry it took so long again, I tend to rework my writing a lot and this in turn delays the updates. The next chapter will be the finale, after which I'll post a short epilogue.

Details: I did my best to keep my theory consistent with the canon, including some facts about the earlier years I looked up on Heroes Wiki again. Although Angela's powers have never been clearly stated in the series, I'm guessing it's probably the divination in dreams – the first power Peter received from others. And even without this gift, Angela seems pretty well informed and connected, as far as the Company and its business goes.

- - -

Hope you're enjoying it. Thanks for reading so far!


	16. Chapter 16: Made to Last

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. AU.**

Day 11. The final confrontation. Drama and action. Main characters all included.

.

_I wish I could eat the salt off _

_of your lost faded lips_

Lyrics by Interpol

.

**Chapter 16: Made to Last**

Nathan lifts its gaze, traveling along the masses of concrete and glass, up where the sharp contours of the building cut into the dotted sky. The air is damp, as if it's about to rain. He shifts in his suit, but the itching at the back of his neck goes nowhere. Peter claps the phone shut, tucks it in his jacket, the agitation making him fluster. Still no sign from the inside, and he knows that even without the confirmation, they'll have to make their move, now.

The little brother brushes a hand through his short-cropped hair, a remainder of the floppy hairstyle still vivid in his reflexes, probably getting the same feeling. Strange how even after purging it from its secrets, the place still draws trouble like sugar water draws ants.

They stand for a moment longer, like two sentinels at a memorial service, before Peter breaks the silence.

"I'm going in. Alone," he states, jaw tensing with conviction, as if claiming his holy duty. He's always secretly thought his gift went to the wrong brother. Nathan is so much better at this… finding ways to save the day. But now, here, he's glad it's him going in there and not his brother. With the most normal voice he adds, "I'll return with survivors, if there are any, then go after Sylar."

"That's a dumb plan." Nathan is grumpy, the itching growing into icicles, just like the night after the election. "The chances are you'll end up killed."

"I _need_ to do this, Nathan."

_Little Pete, always finding the highest cliff to jump off, the one closest to the rocks, shouting on the top of his lungs, 'I can do it Nathan'. _Three painful seconds and a soft swoosh around his body. Watching that nearly killed him. Even then, the little brother was practicing for something big, building up the courage. He knows better now – Peter wasn't preparing himself, he was preparing him. Making him into what he is now.

"I know," Nathan sighs, pulling away from the memories, hand assuringly on Pete's shoulder. "And I'm coming with you."

* * *

"I hate when they do that, leave be behind." The New York traffic is tacky, even with blinkers on. Claire huffs, aggravated, and the bad feeling won't go anywhere.

Parkman gives a shaky laugh, crooking his brow at the girl. "Since when does getting some backup with me classify as 'being left behind'?"

Claire doesn't relax one bit, starts gnawing at her lips instead. "I could be there. I could help." – "The Haitian is our best chance."

"You don't need my help for that."

Matt shakes his head; arguing with Molly is difficult enough, but Claire is a Petrelli, stubborn as hell. "That's not a going to help," he warns, overhearing her thoughts, but it's already too late as the next thing he sees is her launching out of the open door of his speeding car, right in the middle of heavy traffic.

Before he can safely hit the brakes, before he can even attempt to pull over or turn around, he's hopelessly far from the girl, the blond head disappearing into the sea of to New Yorkers.

In fact, she's probably hailing a cab just now, swiping the blood from her rapidly healing bruises. One yellow vehicle stops, then another. She could be anywhere.

Matt stares numbly at the rearview mirror. He can't afford to lose any more time for this. Lives, including hers, are at stake. With a heavy heart, he pulls back on the road, and hits the gas. The hospital is only five minutes away.

-

Peter inspects the front doors. They are opened, but not by force. Simply unlocked. No signs of scuffle, no guards, no signs of Sylar or Elle. They proceed along the empty hallways. Lights flicker once, cold and bright. The air feels chillier than outside. In the first corridor left, there's a man, lying unconsciously on the floor. A few fast strides and they recognize Noah Bennet, heavily concussed, but still very much alive and breathing.

Checking for the injuries, Peter gestures Nathan to help him get the man out of here. With a little help of telekinesis, they effectively heave him up from the ground, hoping there's no broken bones. Suddenly, he emits a soft groan. "Claire," Noah breathes, hardly lucid. "Don't let him get her."

Sensing his responsibility, Nathan assures his surrogate, "Claire is safe with Parkman. The Haitian will soon with them."

Bennet relaxes, a warm drip of blood crawling down his temples. That's all he needs to know.

-

"You need medical attention," the empath states as they reach the sunlight again. Noah winces, possibly due to some broken ribs. "Have you seen Mohinder?"

"Sylar got to him first. I tried to warn him, but I failed…" Another groan. Peter sets him on the front steps, to take a closer look at his injuries. There are various bruises, as if he had taken a three story fall. Bennet leans closer, keeping his voice low.

"_Listen Peter, I know what you're hoping for, but you're the only one who can defeat him. Only you… Trust me, it's the only way you can keep them all safe."_ He leans back, sun glinting on the golden frames_._

"Don't doubt your powers," he adds with a normal voice.

Nathan frowns, unsure what to make of it.

* * *

Just as they reach the entrance, Peter turns around, slamming the doors behind him. Noah was right. He can't risk losing Nathan again. With a strong current of electricity, he jams the security system, effectively locking himself inside the building, or rather – locking everyone out. There will be no causalities if he plays this right.

Concentrating all his willpower on what Molly has taught him, he conjures an image in his minds eye; soft daylight, clear blue sky against Sylar's grip silhouette; Elle, just a few steps away, looking down over the ledge. His eyes open: the rooftop.

Nathan is desperately trying to break down the door, desperate to get back in, but on the other side of the glass Peter just ignores his shouts, offering an almost apologetic "I can't risk you getting in the way."

-

"What now?" Elle debates, looking down to the streets below. If he hears a tremble in her voice, he'll blame it on the wind, the chilly gusts raking her blond hair too harshly. It's unforeseen, at least, standing here with the man he once vowed to bring down herself. For Dad and the Company.

But there is no Company anymore. Just some makeshift allegiances, glued together by circumstances and chance.

"We just wait," Sylar responds, securing the straps around Mohinder's hands. "They'll come to us." The geneticist blinks, unable to speak or argue with the tape over his mouth. Elle deliberately avoids meeting his gaze.

As much as she wants revenge for her father's death, involving Suresh was not part of the plan. Out of the whole bunch, he had taken her side more often than not. A pang of pity hits her chest, she keeps her arms folded, pretending not to notice. Besides… she can put in a good word for him, later, although something tells her Mohinder won't be too grateful after this is over.

After a while they hear shouts, doors slamming, footsteps in the core of the building and Elle witnesses a happy grin emerge on Sylar's face.

"Showtime," he murmurs, and turns to face his adversary.

* * *

Wasting no time, Hiro makes his charge, the silver blade of the samurai sword glinting in the sunlight. Sylar ducks the first blow, but receives a deep lash on his chest. The black jacket peels off a little, a stripe of red turning back to a healthy skin. Sylar grins again, impressed at himself.

"The cheerleader?" the Japanese asks, voice coloring with regret.

The answer is a chuckle. "No, the other one."

Adam Monroe, Takezo Kensei, his childhood hero, his good friend and later his worst enemy – all that is suddenly gone, made into nothing by that awful, terrible… _evil man_.

"Villain!"

With a sudden burst of anger, the tiny Japanese charges again, aiming at the neck, but the metal starts burning in his hand, he drops it, sees it melting like butter. A neat puddle is all there's left of the great Kensei legacy.

"You really thought that would work the second time?" Sylar mocks as he fastens the mental grip around his opponent's neck, hoping to knock him out before–…

Hiro disappears. He's gripping only thin air.

Furious over his miscalculation, Sylar storms around the roof, looking for confrontation. Where are the Petrellis?

-

Nathan runs to the other side of the building, only to confirm what he had already feared – both entrances are impenetrable. Cursing under his breath, he kicks the door for a good measure, to release the panic flooding his mind. The building is virtually a fortress. Bars and shatterproof glass – there's no way he can just break in. Unless… Nathan's gaze lifts high, higher, right where the roof meets the sky. There's one entrance he hasn't tried yet.

"Nathan!" A breathless Hiro shouts, moments before he takes off.

Whirling around in surprise, Nathan sees his little friend, red in the face, still choking to get out the words, "It's Syral, he took Adam's power, I could not stop him!"

"Where? Where is he?"

Hiro points his finger at the sky. "Don't go yet. I saw the future, we were all dead."

"What do you mean _'we'_?" – "Everyone."

-

"Elle!" a distant sound echoes from her past – matching the tone her father would use, if he could see her now. She keeps looking away, trying her best to disguise the fact she's starting to hear voices.

Sylar turns, genuinely surprised. "Weren't you dead?"

It's then that she sees him, flesh and blood, despite missing his glasses and the usual demeanor of authority, looking still very much like her... "Daddy!"

This is great, Sylar thinks, trying to put the pieces together. Are they going to keep doing this now?

Before he has the chance to say anything, his accomplice lands in the arms of her father. The father, who once made a point to keep all emotions hidden, kisses the head of his only daughter, clinging to his jacket like a life vest.

At the sight of this happy reunion, Sylar's face falls. Neither notices.

-

There's something utterly disappointing to the way this… "miracle" has interfered with their designs. _His _designs, as he should call them now.

According to his original plans, she should be dead by now, drained from life and powers, lying on her back somewhere on that warehouse floor. He never longed for company, being a loner by choice – no one ever qualified, and he never made an effort.

She has potential, he explains to himself. More that Maya ever had. Elle is a born killer, resourceful, reckless… though hardly dangerous to him after that last contribution to his set of skills.

Maybe it's for the fact that he hoped so much from her, her training, her character, that makes this turn of events worse than losing his powers for the second time. For that's exactly what it is – something stolen from his reach.

-

It's a quiet moment, if not for the sobbing of Elle, too shocked to stand properly. She tries, though. "I saw you dead."

"And I was… for a certain time." The company man lets go of his daughter, puzzling over the best way to bring it to her. "They revived me, Elle."

Elle can't quite wrap her mind around it. "But… How?"

"The same way we did with Noah Bennet. They used the Claire's blood."

"No, you…" Elle stops mid-sentence, feeling like a downright fool. She'd believed him. Everything he told her. A tiny part of her still tries to argue with him, "You said he was alive, you just healed him." A pause. "You _said _he survived the bullet."

Bob glances around, cornered by his own truth. The eyes never make it back to hers.

"I lied."

* * *

Hearing sounds from the roof, Nathan bears to wait no longer and launches upwards to help his brother. If what Hiro said is true, Peter must be in serious trouble now, and Parkman hasn't even made it back yet. Against all warnings, he soars up, high above the building, only to see that Peter is not there yet.

Maybe he saw him flying from the corner of his eye. Maybe something else gave him away, but Sylar is looking up, and he has to attack now - or else it's going to be never.

Half way down, the villain lifts his arm and revolves Nathan backwards to an nearby highrise building.

"No," he fights, but the telekinesis is stronger than him, and the wall nears with a frightening speed. Seconds before he'll be squashed against like a bug on a windshield Hiro appears at his side, but too late to prevent them both from crashing through the glass.

Looking around him, Sylar spots two others, trying to make it to the exit, before the same happens to them.

A heated blast and Bob falls, shielding Elle with his body.

-

Having seen his brother crash into a nearby building, Peter makes his appearance, angry as hell.

"Sylar!" he shouts, hurling him backward. Taken off guard, the killer hurls closer to the edge, the grin wiped from his face. But the next moment everything changes, and Peter sees dozens of Sylars, laughing at his bewilderment. He sends bolts through them all, but each proves to be a hoax, one shattered image after another.

When the last one disappears, the whole scene changes back, and he finds himself hovering in the air, just a feet from the roof. Sylar is standing right beside him, grabbing onto his lapels, so close that he can feel his breath on him as he speaks:

"Look what I found." He laughs and within an eyeblink, stabs a syringe in Peter's neck. The empath stares at him, the hold at his collar the only thing keeping him up. With odd satisfaction, Sylar watches the inhibitor work the same way as it did on himself. That's how it should have been.

The next moment he releases the hold at his victim's shoulders and lets the gravity do its work. With a shock, Peter realizes he can't fly at all, his black coat opens around him like broken wings, unable to lift him again. Floors pass, without Nathan waiting for him, not even Claire, no one can save him now.

Time slows during his last few thoughts, and he closes his eyes, Claire's voice the last thing he hears.

Then the darkness.

* * *

With a wave of relief, Sylar looks around, now that it's over. It all turned out his way, after all. Almost.

Turning around, Sylar looks at Elle with an expression that glues her on spot. Tilts his head as he studies her, closes the distance with slow deliberate moves. It's a pity, truly.

"Sylar. Stop," Elle pleads, realizing the full extent of the disaster she's helped to create.

The killer kneels down, his fingers tracing her face, her fine features, now trembling and afraid. For a while, they had been the same. Partners in crime. The crazed look lingers in his eyes, though his voice now a half whisper, as if willing her to understand, "Don't you see? I can't stop here." He inhales, his tone gathering strength. "I will _never_ stop. Not as long as I am who I am."

The fear in her eyes gives way to surprise, and for a second he doesn't see why. Then he hears the door close. With one fast move, he reaches out to smash the Haitian against the wall, but nothing happens. With a white bandage wound aroung head, the man is obviously yet to recover from their last encounter, leaning heavily on officer Parkman. His powers are intact, though.

-

Taking advantage of the moment's confusion, Elle sends a bolt of electicity in Sylar's stomach, causing him to bounce several feet away. The wounds begin to heal already, but something is slowing it down, something in the shape of a black man.

_No…_ Sylar laments in his mind, before a curtain is drawn over it, silencing the last protests.

When the villain has passed out, Elle trusts to draw near again. The air is empty, discharged, like the calm after a storm. Kneels scraping against the rough concrete, she sits by the lying man, a black hand hiding his face.

"What will happen to him?"

With his thickly accented voice, the Haitian explains curtly, "He needs to be neutralized." Giving a nod at Parkman, he starts pulling out all the memories Sylar had accumulated over the years. Each and every victim he's killed.

Exhausted, the Haitian drops his hand. There had been too many.

* * *

Down on the asphalt, Claire wakes to the sound of sirens. Through the network of fire escapes, she sees a clear sky. No clouds, just a few black birds crossing over the azure vastness. A soft groan sounds at her left ear. It is then that she becomes aware of the immeasurable weight, piled on her already healing chest.

"Peter?" she ventures, when the breath returns to her lungs, her fingers rake his head on her shoulder, afraid of finding a wound even she can't heal. "Peter…"

She never thought two seconds could feel like a lifetime, but they do. Injured, yet still alive, he moves at last, realizing that she's caught him, all of him. Rolling aside, the ground feels hard after her soft body, and he grins weakly, "Sorry about that."

Claire laughs, tears washing her bloodstained face. It's been said before, but this time she believes it,

"We're okay."

* * *

_The End._

_- - -_

Notes: I kept rewriting this sequence so many times it's the longest and probably the most difficult chapter to put together.

Next: Don't forget to look out for the short Epilogue chapter for a nice conclusion to the story.

_- - -_

_Thank you for reading. Hope it was worth it._


	17. Chapter 17: Epilogue

**Set after 2.11 Powerless. A hypothetical Season 3. AU.**

The ending, as promised.

.

_We can find new ways of living _

_make playing only logical harm_

Lyrics by Interpol

.

**Epilogue**

He wakes at the sound of the car stereo, stations crackle and switch while a girl's voice spills curses on the poor gadget. He could easily spot the loose chord that causes all the noise – a small defect, easily fixable, just a matter of minutes. Before he can try any of that, a powerful current turns the thing into a lump of melted chords and panels.

Blinking his eyes wide open, Sylar sits up on the back seat, unsure of how he ended up here. It's noon outside and wind tosses around some dust, bouncing off the hood of their light blue Chevrolet. On the drivers seat, a pretty blonde – the same one who just destroyed the stereo – leans back, poises her elbow on the backrest, eyes brimming with curiosity and mischief. The girl introduces herself as Elle.

Sylar frowns, flipping through his memories, but he can't find anything, not even his own name. Even his watch says nothing, stuck in the moment it stopped working.

"Why did you do that?" he complains, looking at the radio, not sure why he got so upset about that miserable old thing. "I could have fixed that."

Elle turns back facing the road, a smile on her face like she's got it all figured out. "Why fix if you can have a better one?"

He wants to argue his point, but suddenly she motions him to duck low. A patrol speeds by, blue and red blinkers disappearing behind the dried bush. Two plus two equals four and he's quick to put the pieces together.

"Why are they after us?" he asks directly, climbing onto the front seat. Elle looks at him mysteriously, then turns the ignition.

"Because we're special."

_Special._ He smiles dreamily, liking the sound of it. _Special, she says? _

Yeah, he can take that.

* * *

"It's all done, sweetie," Noah beams, picking up the last few things he's accumulated during his stay in NYC. The suitcase snaps shut, only half full. "We're free to go home now, anywhere you want – California, Texas, Odessa…"

Claire adjusts the covers of his hospital bed and drags her eyes up. "Dad, I… I'm not coming."

This crashes him, at least it's going to, once he's past the bafflement, and she continues to try and soften the blow. "It's just, I can't go back home, with you, pretending to have a normal life. I…" she breathes, conviction seeping back into her voice, "I don't _want_ to be normal."

Noah sits down next to her, having feared this for… ever since she was handed to them. His Clair-Bear has grown up. He rubs her back, warmly, unable to find the words. "You'll always be my Dad, no matter what," she adds, busy fiddling with the edge or her cardigan.

When he does speak, he's remarkably calm about it, treating her much like a young adult. "Do you know where you'll be staying? Do you have someone to take care of you?"

"Nathan… he invited me to live with them, and Peter helps me to enroll in the new school. I want to finish it, you see, go to the University some day. Find my way… whatever that is." She looks up then, to see him smiling – the proud father smile.

"That's good, 'cause then you can still have your summers off," he jokes lightly.

"And Christmas, and Easter…" she hugs him, desperately missing her family. "I'm going see you guys so often that you'll never notice me gone."

"Lyle will be thrilled."

She chuckles.

-

"Everything okay?" Peter asks, as her young protégé shuts the door behind her. She nods '_yes_', fixing her eyes on the glowing city spread out before them: the whirr of traffic merging into the nocturnal cacophony, the mingled noise of red and yellow and white.

He looks at her, weighing her options, the decisions she had to make for this. It must've been hard, saying goodbye to a comfortable life for the unsure little they have here, something he can't describe otherwise than in vague promises. Promises involving Nathan, himself and things you normally read from comic books.

Claire seems confident about her end of the deal, staring into the night, the land of possibilities. Out there, somewhere, there are people unaware they'll be saved tonight.

"I like the view, up here," she whispers at last.

He huffs softly, a hand landing on her hip. "You'll get used to it, some day."

"I hope I won't."

* * *

"Flying would have been easier," Nathan jokes through the excessive heat and noise of the bus station. Niki crooks an eyebrow. An amused snort. She gets more serious then.

"Are you sure you want to do this? We just got rid of Adam and the Company. It's over now. You don't have to take on such a responsibility."

"Someone's got to do it," Nathan shrugs, looking at the driveway. "There are just too many of us out there, wondering who they are. We have the power to protect them..."

The bus arrives just on time, he leans down and picks up her duffel bag. She's probably the last person to need any help with carrying, but it's nice and he wants to be _nice_, for change. Instead of being, well… _himself_. The baggage gets loaded on and the closing hatches sound a lot like a goodbye. He's feeling sardonic over himself, because what else did he expect?

"Say hi to that kid of yours," he says, swaying back and forth on his heels. This is a goodbye.

"You're a good man," Niki says, her blue eyes glowing with admiration, the look only one woman in his life has given him before. Kissing his cheek, she wraps her arms around his neck and adds softly, "She misses you."

-

The bus drives away, dust still swirling in the air and Nathan thinks, hard, wondering if he's got the strength.

Coins rattle in the machine, he clutches the receiver tight against his cheek, while his heart starts racing, nearly blacking out when he hears the soft, inquiring voice.

He takes a breath. A leap.

"Heidi? It's me, Nathan."

* * *

"_How do you know we won't turn into our parents, repeat their makes – maybe even worse?" young Pete asks his brother as they inspect his new office: leather armchairs, mahogany cabinets, high hopes and ceilings. Everything is fresh, untouched, waiting to be molded after their new owner. _

_Nathan stops to look at him, takes him by the shoulder and squeezes, like he would, when he was little, afraid to go to the summer camp, or when the nightmares got the better of him. _

_A smile spreads on the little brother's face, tilting haphazardly to one side. Nathan pauses before answering the question._

"_You don't. All you can do is try."_

* * *

**The end of series.  
**

* * *

Credits: Everything you recognize from heroes belong to Tim Kring and his team, who are currently busy making the real season 3, which (from the few spoilers I've heard) is going to be different and just as awesome as the season 1.

Lyrics: All the song lyrics are by Interpol, here's the list with the chapters.

Ch I-V: _Public Pervert_

Ch VI-X: _Evil_

Ch XI-XV: _Take You on a Cruise_

Ch XVI-XVII: _Obstacle_

Notes: Although it took longer than I thought it would, I'm happy I started this story and even happier to finish it at last. There have been chapters of different quality, but I hope you were satisfied in the end.

I'm not planning a sequel for this, since it sums itself up pretty well, although the twists in the end leave some possibilities for smaller spin-offs.

Thanks: Hugs to all of you who read and took the trouble of reviewing, it's what kept me going!

- - - -

Any questions, suggestions, comments on the story – click the review button : )


End file.
